


gold in our veins

by MaddyBee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Sansa Stark, Daenerys Targaryen Bashing, F/M, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Torture, Marriage, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Past Abuse, Queen Sansa, Romance, Sansa-centric, Smut, The Long Night, Winterfell, gendraya is a secondary pairing, jaime deserved a better redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2020-10-18 13:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20639633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddyBee/pseuds/MaddyBee
Summary: it had been years since she had seen his face, heard his voice, felt his skin. It had been too long since he had looked into her eyes and remembered his purpose in life. Rekindling their marriage might have to wait till after they survive The Long Night, but with threats from inside their own homes and families, their reunion in Winterfell couldn't have come at a better time.





	1. Chapter 1

_\-----_

_A hush fell over the crowded Sept and he knew it was time. _

_This was really happening, he was really about to be wed to a woman - a girl - he had spoken to maybe 5 or so times. With a deep breath in, he turned from the window to face the door at the opposite end of the hall. He couldn’t deny that she was beautiful, her red hair intricately plaited and shining, the golden dress she wore glittering in the sun that beamed from behind her._

_ He had to admit she was doing a good job at hiding her nerves, head held high and hands elegantly clasped to distract from their shaking. She only slipped when Joffrey strode to her side, his evil smirk present as always. The brief flicker of pain and humiliation across her face had him closing his eyes as he quelled the urge to either punch his bratty son around the face or run through those open doors and never look back. Both sounded good right now._

_ When his eyes blinked open again he was drawn into the cocky gaze of his twin. She looked so pleased with herself as she turned again to watch their son saunter his way toward the altar, and once again he was struck with the idea of lashing out like the caged animal he currently was. But he took another calming breath, focusing on the steady click of his wife-to-be’s shoes as he tried to slow his heart rate to the same beat. He didn’t even realise he had been staring at her until they were face to face, and he could see the resigned look in her eyes and the fragile smile on her lips. _

_He’d sworn to Catelyn Stark he would protect her daughter, and now he was marrying her. This was definitely not what the woman had in mind, but he also supposed that there was really no better position from which he could protect her - no one was going to try and harm the wife of a kingslayer after all. His lips twitched up into what he hoped resembled something of a reassuring smile, and they both turned to face the septon. _

_He was so sure he was never going to marry. His heart only ever belonged to Cersei - as did his body, soul and mind. Lately that connection, their birth-bond, had been weakening ever so slightly. He hated to admit it, hated that the thought kept lurking in the shadows of his brain but it was there and he knew it was true. They’d been apart for so long, for the first time in their lives, and he had come back without a hand, no use to anyone now that he was unable to fight._

_ Cersei never cared for things that lacked perfection, and she did little to hide the disgust on her face each time she saw the stump he had been left with. _

_But she had always said that they belonged to one another, that they were one in the same and nothing could ever part them. So why did she look at him the way she now did? Why did she push and push for the marriage of him and Sansa, go to such great lengths to prove to Tywin that this was the best thing to do for their family. _

_He didn’t know. _

_He didn’t know what was happening between him and his sister, but now was not the time to dwell on it. Now he had to focus on how the fuck he was supposed to be a husband. He was expected to bed this young Stark girl with her pale skin and doe eyes, and as the septon droned on his eyes flickered from her downcast gaze, to his disgusting golden hand, to his still smiling sister and wondered if it was too late to run._

\-----

** _Sansa_ **

She wasn’t sure how many times she’d read the note now. She would read it, place it upon the table, stare into the fire for a few seconds, and then pick it up and read it again as if it would now say something different - she wished it would. It was funny how a few lines of Jon’s scrawl could destroy her life. Well, it wasn’t funny, but it sure was devastating.

She hated that he had made such an important decision without consulting her. She hated that he had gone behind her back and sold away their independence so carelessly. And she hated that Littlefinger had been right. The Dragon Queen must have been as beautiful as he said because not only had Jon bent the knee to her, but he had also fucked her. Not that he had written such a thing, but Sansa knew it to be true nonetheless.

Jon was not good at playing the game. He was a brilliant fighter, a fierce protector, a man she was sure anyone would want on their side - but he wasn’t politically inclined. He couldn’t see the big picture, couldn’t plan ahead. To him, the war for the throne in the South no longer existed, or at least didn’t matter, while The Night King marched. That just wasn’t true. Enemies and allies they made now would affect their future, and they had to plan for what would happen when - not _if_, but _when_ \- they survived the Long Night.

He was her brother. She wanted to support him unconditionally and believe he knew what he was doing, but she couldn’t blindly follow him as he made choices like this. The Targaryen’s were bad news, her uncle and grandfather had been burnt by the father of the woman Jon had just pledged their allegiance to. The whole situation was a mess, and Sansa honestly had no idea what to do.

Her head was spinning with emotions and thoughts that she didn’t have the energy to even begin to sort through - not tonight. Tonight had other matters to be dealt with. Rising from her chair, she glanced upon the note once more as she threw a cloak around her shoulders. A momentary pause and then she grabbed thhe slip of parchment and hid it within her dress, not yet ready for the information to be spread around the castle by prying eyes. The secret pocket she had sewn into her gown was a suitable hiding place, but her fingers stilled as they grazed the cold metal curled in the bottom of the pocket. The redhead pulled gently on the chain, careful to not catch the edges on her dress, and laid it on her palm. The necklace was as beautiful as always, the gold still shining brightly despite the years it had spent on the run with her, exposed to harsh climates. It was one of her most treasured possessions, the only thing that she still had from her days in Kings Landing, and she kept it safe in her pocket at all times, bringing it out every once in a while when she needed strength.

The lion and the wolf fit so perfectly together in a way she never would have expected.

A wistful smile played on her lips as she allowed herself a moment, just a single moment, to remember. Then she tucked the pendant back into her pocket, schooled her features into her usual determined look and strode from the room as the Lady of Winterfell, off to complete her duty no matter what storm raged inside her head.

** _Jaime_ **

Summons from his sister were far and few between these days, but he still knew better than to keep her waiting, so he only took a second to sigh in agitation before passing his training sword to Bronn and following the guard to the Queen’s chambers. He didn’t want to see his sister right now. He didn’t want to see or speak to anyone really.

He was still reeling from the attack Daenerys carried out on his army, anger coursing through his veins that had kept him awake the last few nights and led to him doing nothing with his day but train.

Not a single one of their army men had returned, and the smell of burning flesh still filled his nostrils. Daenerys wasn’t playing around.

When he’d first heard that there was a Targaryen out in the world, building an army, wishing to reclaim her throne, the news had been a punch to the gut. He had seen firsthand the horror that Targaryen’s brought to the world, could still remember that fateful day that earned him the title of Kingslayer. A Targaryen back on the throne would destroy not only the kingdom, but the entirety of Westeros. What he’d seen just days ago confirmed his fears.

She thought that she was just, that she had given his men a fair choice and they deserved to die for not immediately surrendering to a foreign ruler. Her claim to the throne was not nearly as strong as she seemed to think, the Baratheon bloodline had legally taken over the mantle of royalty, and that had passed on to the Lannister bloodline after the death of the last Baratheon.

Daenerys would take after her father, just as Joffrey had taken after his mother.

He was still deep in thought as he entered Cersei’s solar, standing to attention with a respectful nod of his head and a greeting of ‘Your Grace’ on complete autopilot. As usual, his sister was drinking deeply from a goblet of wine, Qyburn and the hulking Mountain nearby - they almost never spoke alone these days. Not since the day after Jaime’s wedding all those years ago.

She fixed him with her amused gaze, and a shiver of unease ran down his spine. Wordlessly, she pushed a slip of parchment across the table, then rose to saunter over to the window, wine glass still in hand. Jaime watched her carefully for a moment, threw a cautious glance at Qyburn and then reached for the unfurled scroll. His heart sank and his mouth went dry as his eyes read the familiar scribble. His brother. Their reunion had opened up old wounds, the feelings that Jaime had buried years ago had all bubbled to the surface and once Tyrion had gone, he had all but destroyed his room in a blind rage. He had been waiting for the letter to arrive, to see Cersei’s reaction at the Dragon Queen requesting they meet, here on her own turf.

He wasn’t a good actor, or much of a liar, but he made sure to feign surprise and confusion at the letter’s contents.

“Will you receive them?” he questioned, fingers fidgeting with the paper as he watched her back for any sort of reaction.

“Well of course,” she began in a silky tone, wicked grin on her lips as she turned back to him, “I am the Queen, I must welcome all into my lands. If she wants to bend the knee, then how could I stand in her way?”

Jaime’s brows furrowed.

“What do you mean? She’s not coming to swear fealty to you, she’s here to ask for an alliance -”

“Yes, and in return for my help, I think it’s only fair some of my demands are met.” Her crown glinted in the sun, and the look on her face as she finally met his eyes made his breath halt. “Maybe the dragon bitch won’t bow to me, but Jon Snow will. The North will be mine when he swears to me. Best of all, dear brother, you’ll be able to see your darling little wife again. I cannot wait to spend some time with her.”

Jaime’s heart stopped, and before he even realised what was happening his good hand was wrapped around Cersei’s throat.

“I told you before, and I’ll tell you as many times as I must - leave Sansa alone,” he ground out, eyes wild with fury. He was still lucid enough to be aware of The Mountain drawing his sword and striding forward, so he reluctantly relinquished his grip, leaving his sister to gasp in air greedily, clutching the table for support.

The Mountain was still approaching him, but Cersei held up one hand to make him pause. The room was silent for a moment as she took a few steadying breaths, rubbing gently at her throat as she straightened to her full height. They locked eyes.

“Touch me again, and you’ll lose the other hand.”

Fists clenched, Jaime turned and marched from the room, anger still rearing in his chest at the threat towards his wife. Ex-wife? She had been married to the Bolton bastard, so he wasn’t sure what that made them anymore. He hadn’t seen her in years, but he still dreamt of her every night. Thought about her every day. There wasn’t a single morning that passed without him waking and thinking that perhaps this would be the day he left King’s Landing and headed North to find her. He wouldn’t though. He couldn’t. She deserved better than him, so much better. She had been a Lannister prisoner for so long, who was he to find her in her freedom and remind her of a life she undoubtedly wished to leave behind.

Instead, he’d stayed here with his sister, doing his very best to keep her interest on anything other than Sansa. His sister hated the Stark girl, with a venom that he didn’t truly understand, and she was a danger to her. So he remained here in the Kingsguard, reluctantly so, and protected a Queen he no longer believed in - that he no longer loved. He’d had one moment of weakness though, a night of drinking away his sorrow that had led to him laying with his sister, a memory that made him want to retch when he thought of her hands on his body. The morning after had been the first time he thought, fuck it, it’s time to leave. He couldn’t be here with her, he needed to be wherever in the world Sansa was. However, he’d made a fateful mistake, and Cersei wasn’t about to just let him walk away.

Leave, and Sansa Stark would die.

That was the promise that dropped from her vile lips, and sadly he knew his sister was being honest, for once in her life. She would send men to the North as many times as she must before one of them brought back her head.

Jaime had had so many dreams of such a thing ever since. Of waking to find her facing him, pale face and big eyes and russett hair, but no body beneath her, just a pool of blood. His very worst nightmare. And so he stayed in King’s Landing, spending as much time training as he could, hiding from his sister and shutting himself off from the rest of the world. He was doing what he had to do to keep Sansa alive, as he always would.

Only now there was a new threat, a new army of the dead to contend with. Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen would be here within a week to discuss the new war, and as much as he wished to see Sansa again, he prayed to any of the gods that she wouldn’t come here, because if she did, there was no doubt in his mind that Cersei would have her killed.

_ **Sansa** _

The only sound in the Main Hall was the crackling of the fire, and Sansa relished the peace. She sat at the table, staring at the spot on the floor where Littlefinger’s blood had pooled mere hours ago. The maids had scrubbed hard to get the blood out of the stone, but there was still a patch of darker grey that you likely wouldn’t even notice if you didn’t know what had happened that afternoon.

Another man dead for his crimes against the Starks. Another major player removed from the board.

Sansa couldn’t help but feel satisfaction at the way his life had ended, the look of fear on his face as he had begged for mercy. He deserved what he got. She proved to herself and everyone else that those who harmed her and her family would pay for their actions. As if summoned by her thoughts, a gentle creak and quiet footsteps rang behind her, and a hand settled on her shoulder.

“I’m proud of you, sister. You took control, you acted like a true leader.”

The compliment from Arya warmed her heart, and she reached to squeeze her sister’s hand as they smiled at one another. Bran sat by the fire, engrossed in the flames as he often was, and the sisters shared another grin at that. They were together again, in their home where they belonged. Once Jon was back, the pack would be as complete as it could be. Her smile wavered as her mind once again returned to Jon and the foreign queen, Arya quickly picking up on the change in mood.

“Bran said you had news from Jon,” she prompted, taking a seat next to Sansa and flinging her feet up on the table. Sansa gave her dirty boots a disapproving look before focusing on her sister’s face. “

He bent the knee to Daenerys.”

She had expected an outburst of anger, but her sisters face was neutral and her arms remained crossed.

“He says it was the only way to have her agree to help us in The Long Night,” Sansa continued, leaning forward to pass Arya the note, “he says we need the dragons and the Unsullied and the Dothraki, and I don’t know enough about war or the White Walkers to dispute him. I trust his judgement on that, of course, but-”

But what? She was pissed as hell that he had given away Winterfell? That he had apparently completely forgotten that technically, as the eldest living trueborn Stark, Sansa was the heir to Winterfell, and after everything she went through to get here and win back their home, he had given it away to the first person who asked?

Arya was still quiet, and a part of Sansa began to worry that Arya was not angered by Jon, but by her. Arya had always been close to Jon when they were children, and she probably fully supported his decision. Maybe she thought that Sansa was being selfish and unreasonable, a spoiled child who cared more about power than the realm surviving the oncoming threat. Sansa grew uncomfortable under Arya’s steely gaze at those sobering thoughts, and dropped her eyes to her lap where she wrung her hands in anxiety.

There was a thud as Arya swung her feet to the ground, and the scrape of a chair as she shifted herself closer to her elder sister. Then, a small, rough hand slipped into her pale ones, and she looked up once more to find Arya’s eyes fiery with passion.

“He’s going to have some major explaining to do when he gets back.”

_ **Jaime** _

As he walked in the procession to the Dragonpit, Qyburn and Euron at his side, Cersei and The Mountain ahead, he couldn’t help but feel like he was definitely on the wrong side. His eyes glanced across the allies of the Targaryen as he stalked towards his seat. Tyrion. Jon. Varys. And Brienne. His step faltered when he saw the blonde woman, the need to ask after Sansa heavy on his tongue. They had sworn the same oath, to protect the Stark girls, but unlike him, the Maid of Tarth had actually fulfilled her oath. Last he had heard, she was with Sansa in Winterfell. He would need to talk to her later.

Him and Jon then locked eyes for the first time since he had married his sister. A bastard as loyal and true as his late father, yet now he stood as the sidekick of another queen, not as the King of the North. What did that mean for Sansa?

Pushing down his questions, he sat quietly in his seat. Now was not the time to think about his wife, it was time for a war counsel. He watched in mild interest as the Clegane’s squared off, fidgeted in the awkward silence as those gathered waited for the Targaryen girl. Then he heard the roar of a dragon and he jumped from his seat, hand instantly on the pommel of his sword as his heart froze. Squinting against the blazing sun, his keen eyes searched the sky to find a great, hulking beast flying towards them. He would never admit it out loud, but it was a terrifying and wondrous sight to behold. The Dragon Queen herself was not quite so impressive, small and arrogant, incredibly entitled as he had quickly discovered in their previous encounter.

Jaime’s heart was still thumping as he sat, listening silently to Tyrion and Jon explain what was coming for them from beyond The Wall. Although it was difficult to believe such stories, he still ground his teeth in irritation as Cersei dismissed Snow with her japes, not even listening to the man stood before him. As he listened to the two Queens snarl at each other, he was struck with how glaringly apparent it was that neither of them was fit to be ruler. The Targaryen was blind to her own actions, arrogant to a fault and naive in the ways of war and leadership. Cersei was cruel, power-hungry as anything, and cared not a single bit for the common folk. His thoughts wandered, as they always did, to Sansa, and how unlike either of these women she was.

Then Clegane brought forward a crate that he set on the ground before them, undid the lid, and kicked at it. Nothing at first, then a screech more bone-chilling than that of the dragon, and out tumbled a horrifying creature. A skeleton swathed in rags that hurtled itself straight for Cersei until The Hound gave a sharp tug to the chain that sent the monster crashing to the ground. Jaime barely registered himself standing and drawing his sword, staring transfixed as the thing was slain in two, and the top half continued to howl as it dragged itself across the floor. Bile rose in his throat as he envisioned an army of these, and his horrified eyes caught the shock on his sister’s face as Jon Snow plunged his dragonglass dagger into the beast’s head, the sudden quiet thick with fear.

“You can’t believe it until you see it,” Daenerys spoke steadily, eyes fixed on the now dead creature, “but there is an army of them out there. I’ve seen them all.”

Jaime swallowed, glancing to the silver-haired woman. “How many?”

“A hundred thousand, at least.”

He couldn’t bring himself to hate Euron for leaving, the future suddenly looked a lot bleaker for them all. He also couldn’t judge Jon Snow for staying true to his word when he refused to retreat, despite the fact that he could have easily won Cersei’s favour with a simple lie. However, the pure disgust he felt when Cersei stated that her army would not ride North to help them fight was suffocating. The Queen stood, her men followed, and he practically launched himself from his chair to march furiously after her. In his anger, he forgot to question Brienne about Sansa, he was so filled with blinding rage at his sister’s complete stupidity and selfishness that he couldn’t think of anything else. He managed to contain his yells until finally, finally, they were alone in her chambers.

“What in the seven hells is wrong with you?” Jaime demanded, further enraged at how calm Cersei seemed to be, settling at her desk with folded hands.

“Dear brother, did you really think we would be marching North to help our enemies? They’re united against us, so let this Army of the Dead wipe out as many of them as they can, and we can kill whoever survives.”

“And what if no one survives?” He couldn’t stop himself from shouting. “People will die, Cersei, hundreds of thousands of people. Not just in the North, but here as well. They will come for us and we won’t stand a chance.”

He lowered his voice, took a breath.

“They need us, we need them. If the Dead are to die, we have to fight together.”

His voice dropped to a desperate whisper.

“Cersei, please. See sense.”

His sister simply smirked lightly, and stalked from the room, leaving to Jaime to wonder how, once upon a time, he had actually loved a woman so cruel.

_ **Sansa** _

The summit had been a failure, Cersei outright refusing to aid them due to her own bloody paranoia. Frustration warmed Sansa’s skin as she stared into the face of the Weirwood Tree. Nowhere in the world made her feel more at home than the Godswood, and she always found herself knelt before the white trunk whenever she needed to think. Some of her best memories took place in these trees - playing with Lady, hiding from her brothers and Arya, learning all about life from her mother, leaning against her father as he told her stories of his youth. Of course, her wedding to Ramsay had also taken place in these woods, but it did little to tarnish her special place.

Daenerys, Jon, and their convoy were on their way to Winterfell, a matter of days away, and there was so much to prepare. Daenerys had thousands of men, where exactly was she supposed to house that many men? Knights of the Vale and Riverlands were already tightly packed into the moors surrounding the castle, food resources were already strained as stocks were being built in case of a siege, and she doubted the Southerner’s would have appropriate clothing. If Daenerys expected to turn up and demand that Sansa hand over all her carefully collected supplies to her army, she was sorely mistaken. Sansa was the Lady of Winterfell, and so of course would welcome her guests with provisions - they could pitch their tents furthest from the castle walls, and would have the same food rations that everyone else got. As for clothing, well, they would have to make do. Hunt for their own furs or freeze, Sansa hardly cared, it was not her responsibility to do the Dragon Queen’s work for her. They would also have to make do without the extra soldiers.

Knowing they wouldn’t have help from the Lannister army was both a blessing and a harsh blow. Less men to fight the war meant they were still so vastly outnumbered, and their chances of winning were starting to look more unlikely. Although, Sansa couldn’t help the strum of relief that Cersei would be coming nowhere near her or her family in the coming weeks - instead she was a problem to be dealt with at a later date. Then there was Jaime. She had been trying not to think of the man, knew she was reverting back into a stupid little girl who expected a galliant knight to come save her from the monsters in the dark. She had survived Littlefinger and Ramsay and Lysa without him, she could survive this without him as well. Except she didn’t want to, she wanted him here with her. She wanted to know why he hadn’t come for her in the past years since she fled from King’s Landing, wanted to make sure he knew that she had nothing to do with the death of his son. Wanted him to know that she loved him still, even after all these years, and that the thoughts of him had been a big part of what had got her through the worst nights.

No, stupid girl. He never loved her. He was forced to marry her, forced to lay with her. He never cared for her beyond what his duty demanded. Standing abruptly, Sansa fled for the castle, head down as she repeated the words in her head.

_Stupid girl. Stupid girl. Stupid girl._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a whole bunch of people turn up at Winterfell and no one trusts anyone

**Sansa**

Every occupant of the castle gathered in the courtyard, waiting as those on horseback grew closer. Running a hand over Ghost’s soft fur, Sansa straightened her spine, eyes barely blinking as she stared through the gate, catching her first glimpse of Unsullied and Dothraki as they pulled off from the procession to wait outside the walls. As expected, they looked very underdressed for the winter, and she took pleasure in watching them try not to shiver in the gentle snow as the Northerners stood tall, proud and unfazed. 

Daenerys must have listened when Jon warned her of the weather though, as she was wrapped in some sort of hideous white fur. Sansa admitted the woman was beautiful, her hair and eyes striking among the darker features of the Northerners. Her two dragons were still soaring around, distant figures in the grey sky and Sansa hoped that they had been taught what was food and what was not - if they attacked her people, or ate all their livestock, Sansa didn’t care about the repercussions, she would have furious words with their mother.  On the horse next to her sat Jon, nervous eyes showing his discomfort at the lacklustre welcome of his people. But then, Sansa thought, if he had expected a warm welcome after what he had done, he was an idiot. It wasn’t until he was mere metres from them that his eyes finally caught sight of Bran, quickly dismounting and rushing to hug his long-lost brother. After a few seconds he pulled away reluctantly, turning his guilty look to Sansa. A lot of emotions ran through her, but he was her brother, and he was here and safe and alive, so she pushed them aside and hugged him tightly. 

“Arya?” he questioned, eyes scanning the crowd excitedly. 

Sansa huffed a small laugh and shook her head.

“She’s lurking somewhere.”

Jon smiled at her answer, looking back and forth between his siblings, as if he still didn’t believe they were there, until a soft cough sounded out behind him. Startled, the man turned and led Daenerys forward to the Starks, swallowing thickly as the two women looked the other up and down.

“Sansa, Bran, this is Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons and the rightful Queen,” he gestured at his siblings, “and these are my family, Your Grace, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and Bran, my brother.”

“The Three-Eyed Raven.”

Silence followed Bran’s statement, confusion clear in the furrow of Jon’s brow and the slow blink from Daenerys. Sensing they were about to go into a deep tangent, Sansa stepped forward with a careful, cool smile. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace. Land has been selected for your armies to set their tents, and rooms have been prepared for you and your council,” with a gentle crook of her wrist, handmaiden’s and servants lept to attention, ready to escort the visitors. “I’m sure you want some time to bathe and recover from the long journey, so please take your time to settle in and we will talk more at the feast tonight.” 

Not waiting for a dismissal from someone else’s queen, Sansa turned to push Bran back into the castle, aware of the Northern Lords and Ladies following her lead and dispersing without any further acknowledgment of Danenerys or her advisors. She missed the setting of Daenerys’ jaw, and the narrowing eyes that watched her as she walked away without a backward glance.  Jon noticed though, and quickly called a stable boy to take their horses and lead Daenerys inside, where she then took further offence upon discovery that her and er advisors were allocated guest rooms at the far end of the castle, well away from the Starks' rooms and almost within the servants' quarters. 

Jon wasn’t sure what game Sansa was playing, but the thunder on Daenerys’ face caused a shiver of fear to course through his spine. 

**Jaime**

So much of his life was spent on horseback. He loved riding, but the road to Winterfell was fucking long and he was getting bored of it. His muscles were aching, he was caked in dirt, and the cold made his lungs rattle. It had been weeks, but they had finally passed The Twins, and it should only be another week at most before they reached the Northern fortress.  For the thousandth time since leaving, he thanked the Gods for the men at his back.

After his pleading with Cersei had completely failed, he rushed back to his room to pack a bag and send word to the stables to prepare his finest thoroughbred for travel. He had to go North. He couldn’t sit back in Kings Landing knowing that so many people were facing death from the most terrifying things anyone had seen. He couldn’t leave Sansa to die. It wasn’t until he mounted his horse and trotted through the gates to be met with a crowd of men that he felt some relief. Lannister soldiers, nearly 200 of them, gathered on horses and armed to the teeth, and all awaiting his lead. Jaime must have looked baffled, because Ser Daven nudged his steed forwards with a melancholy smile. 

“Didn’t think we were gonna let you face those skeletal fuckers alone with a bunch of Northerners, did you?” Daven grinned a little wider, reaching to smack a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “The men that were there at the Summit saw what the Snow bastard brought, and we can’t let those things come South. Our families will never see those creatures.” 

Ser Daven Lefford was a good man, an excellent fighter and one of the Commander’s of the Lannister army. Jaime had always trusted him with his life, and there was no one he would rather have pledged to follow him on this deadly mission. Unsure what to say, he nodded at his friend, then looked across the men gathered before him.

“There are more who want to fight, who are loyal to you and not your sister, but they will join us later. We need to get on the road, we have a long way to go.”

And now here they were, firmly in Northern territory, and the reality of what lay before him began to hit. He’d be reunited with Sansa within days. That thought alone bought so many emotions to the surface, and he could feel a stupid little smile slip on to his face as he pictured his wife. He remembered the last time he had seen her as if it was yesterday.  It had been Joffrey’s wedding, and his little wife had been dressed in purple, her russet hair glinting and loose around her shoulders, necklace draped across her delicate throat. She had been so beautiful that day. He had planned on spending the evening dancing and drinking with Sansa, making her laugh as best he could, a rare sight since she’d arrived at Kings Landing. Then Joffrey had dropped to the floor with bleeding eyes and purple skin, and by the time he had thought to look up, she was gone. He stayed with Cersei as she mourned their child, comforted Tommen as best he could, and then returned to his solar to wait for his wife to reappear. 

Only, she never did, and Cersei decided that her and Tyrion must have been the ones behind the King’s death, and his life went to shit as his brother was arrested and his wife became a wanted woman on the run. He had been naive at first, had expected her to contact him to let him know what was happening, tell him why she had run and where she had gone. Then he became worried, as the realisation sunk in that maybe, just maybe, she  _ was  _ running because she was guilty.  She hated Joffrey, that was no secret. Jaime knew, though, that the girl was no killer, no more than his brother was. It wasn’t until his visit to Olenna all those years later that he finally found out the truth of Joffrey’s murder. He never knew the full story of where Sansa had been all those years, receiving tidbits of information here and there, but never wanting to push his luck and seek her out. He couldn’t lead Cersei to her. It was safer for everyone to pretend that the arranged marriage had been a farce, and that he cared next to nothing for the long-gone Stark girl. 

He didn’t know what he was supposed to say when he saw her again. How was he supposed to act? They had been married, but that was years ago, and many things had happened in that passage of time. Her feelings for him, weak as they likely had been in the start, would have faded, and he would have to watch her from afar and pretend his heart wasn’t burning with the need to hold her.  He had to be realistic. They would be all but strangers when they were reunited, just as they had been at their wedding, and just like back then, he was willing to take the time to turn them from strangers to something much, much more - if she’d give him the chance. 

**Sansa**

The Godswood was silent as they gathered in a loose circle, eyes occasionally meeting then drifting away like the snow that swirled around their feet. Ghost prowled nearby, picking his way through the deep powder, the only movement among the trees.  It was Arya who finally broke the silence. 

“Why did you bend the knee to her? After what her father has done to our family?”

Her face was blank, her voice steady despite the accusatory words. Her arms were by her sides, stance stiff, and Sansa knew her sister was a soldier of a different breed. She tried to take inspiration from the ferocious brunette, lifting her head high as she gazed upon her still silent half-brother.

“You were the one who called us all here, Jon,” she uttered quietly, and his eyes reluctantly met hers. “You said you needed to explain, so explain.”

Jon closed his eyes, rubbing a gloved hand over them roughly, whole demeanour ragged and tired looking. 

“Look, we need her men, her dragons. Cersei’s refusing to help us, we have no other choice! We don’t know the size of the army we’re facing but we have to assume we’ll be severely outnumbered - so we need her, whether we like it or not. This alliance is necessary.”

“And giving her Winterfell, the North? Was that necessary?” 

Anger leaked into Arya’s voice this time, her eyes narrowed, never wavering from Jon. Standing elbow to elbow with her sister, Sansa sent the shorter girl a careful look, wanting answers but not a fight. Then she stepped forward, coming to a stop when she was practically toe to toe with Jon.

“We fought for our home. We lost so many men to the Boltons, we lost  _ Rickon  _ to the Boltons, all to regain the North, and now you’ve given it away to someone who hadn’t even stepped foot in our land until today. I know we need her as an ally, but look me in the eye and tell me again that it was  _ necessary  _ to give away the North, our  _ freedom _ , so easily.”

Her voice was quiet and steady, and Jon’s gaze dropped in shame as she stared coolly at him. 

Sucking in a deep breath of cold air, Sansa turned her back on her brother, betrayal squeezing tightly on her heart.

“That’s what I thought.”

xxxx

  
  


After the less-than-ideal reunion between siblings, Sansa had hidden away in her rooms with an order to not be disturbed under the guise of getting ready for the feast. In reality, she had gotten in the steaming bath and sat there until the water was cold, deep in thought and staring out the window. She knew she could trust Podrick, who stood guard outside her door, to turn away anyone who came to disturb her, and so she got lost in the repetitive noise of clanging swords from the training grounds, relishing the cool breeze that ruffled her hair and caressed her skin. 

Eventually, a knock on the door roused Sansa from her reverie, and she rose from the freezing water, tugging a robe to cover her body as she padded softly towards the door. Podrick would only have knocked if it was important, and so she swung the door open to be met with Jorlyn and a gaggle of maids. She blinked, and then suddenly took note of how dark the sky outside her window was getting. Standing back, she let the women in, and they quickly began to fuss around her, robing her in a black dress with Stark-grey accents, perfect for showing the Dragon Queen that Sansa would not be as easily tamed as her brother. The complementary tunics she had stitched for Bran and Arya would make them the epitome of a wolf pack, and showed a united North to all these outsiders. 

The feast wasn’t nearly as grand as those in the South. The hall was full of long communal tables, flagons of ale and barrels of wine crowding the room, a modest, but hearty dinner set on the tables. Fires filled every hearth that lined the room, but the atmosphere was still icy. Sansa sat at one of the centre seats of the head table, Jon in the other, Bran and Arya on her right side. Davos, Lord Royce and Lady Mormont filled the end seats on the right side, Podrick stood behind her and Brienne in front and to the side, despite her insistence that they both take a seat and enjoy the feast like everyone else. That was, if the feast could ever start.  Daenerys was late, none of her council or allies in the room, and Sansa’s patience was slipping. Maybe it was a power play, the Queen taking pleasure in knowing that the feast wouldn’t start without her. Maybe she wanted to make some sort of ridiculous grand entrance. Either way, it was beyond rude, and her fingers tapped impatiently on the handle of her chair. Jon had been slowly sinking in his seat, cup of ale now empty as he drank to distract from the glares of the Northerners that continuously passed over him. 

Finally, just as Sansa was about to say ‘fuck her, this feast is starting now’, the doors swung open and in strutted the dragon woman, smug look on her face and her expensive blue gown trailing on the floor. Behind her walked Tyrion, who looked suitably sheepish, Varys, a blank slate as always, and the advisors that Sansa had been informed by Jon to be Missandei, Grey Worm and Jorah Mormont. Her steps only halted when she noticed the head chairs were both taken, but she quickly regained composure and circled the table, eyes latched onto Jon. His arms automatically reached for the arms of his chair to push himself out, and Sansa realised with horror that he was actually about to give her his seat - this time literally. He seemed to register the severity of that move and what it would indicate as the faces of all gathered in the room turned to him with frowns of stone, and so he played off the movement by adjusting his position and reaching for his goblet, holding it out for a server to fill. 

Sansa caught the fury in Daenerys’ eyes and smirked lightly, hiding her amusement behind her cup as she took a small sip of wine. The white haired woman took her place on Jon’s left, but didn’t sit, apparently planning to address the gathered crowd as her companions took their seats. 

“People of Winterfell,” she began, and Sansa only just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “I thank you all for welcoming me into your home. It’s an honour to be in such beautiful lands, and I am so very pleased that we will be allies in the coming wars. Your King has pledged himself to me, making you my people, and I hope you will realise quickly that not only am I the rightful Queen by birthright, but that I am the Queen who will do right by her subjects. Now please, eat, and enjoy yourselves.”

The ‘queen’ nodded, satisfied with herself, and sat, seemingly oblivious to the stunned, outraged silence of the masses. Arya snorted loudly at her words, head shaking at the audacity, and Jon quickly signalled to the court musicians to start playing. Slowly, people turned to start eating, muttering among themselves and both Sansa and Jon could see their obvious fury. Daenerys was still oblivious, and turned from talking to Missandei to lay a hand on Jon’s arm, leaning over him with a plastered-on smile to face Sansa. 

“Your brother wasn’t lying when he said you were a beauty. He speaks very highly of you, and I so hope we can get along as friends, not just as allies.”

The wolf in Sansa wanted to snarl and bare her teeth, rear up and promise that the North would never be hers and that Sansa would rather burn alive from her dragon's fire than be this woman’s friend. However, she was a Lady, this was her home, and these were her people, and she wouldn’t rise to this woman. She had to be careful, had to play the game she had been taught. So she smiled, cool, but realistic enough.

“I’m glad you’re settling in so easily, Your Grace. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.” She turned away in dismissal, cutting up her food and talking quietly to Arya about how the training of the younger Northerner’s was going. She had her back turned, and so didn’t see the set of Daenerys’ jaw as she leant back in her seat, Jon resting a placating hand over hers where it started to grip into his arm. 

She didn’t try to talk to Sansa again, instead speaking only to her advisors while Sansa spoke with her siblings, Brienne and Pod. Jon was stuck awkwardly in the middle, feeling guilty whichever way he turned, but Sansa couldn’t currently find it in her to feel sorry for him - he had put himself in this predicament after all, stuck between his allegiance to the Dragon Queen and his loyalty to his family and the North. 

By the time the food was finished and the drink had greatly diminished, spirits had finally lifted and people were talking more freely, mingling and laughing, though Daenerys’ followers kept to themselves in the corner. Arya had disappeared a while ago, and Sansa was sitting at one of the tables among her people, teaching a little girl a clapping game she had played as a child. The girl was giggling, Brienne and Pod watching from the other side of the table with smiles on their faces. Gilly and Little Sam sat on the other side of the girl, the toddler eagerly trying to join in, and Tormund slouched in the end chair, drinking heavily and flirting unabashedly with Brienne. Despite her apparent irritation with the Wildling, Sansa could see the pink dusting the blonde’s cheeks, and she made a note to rib the woman about that later.  If she hadn't been watching Brienne, she wouldn’t have noticed the moment she straightened in her chair, her hand clenching the hilt of her sword and her eyes fixed with caution on a point beyond Sansa’s shoulder. Quickly, she turned to see what had caused such a reaction from her sworn-sword, and was met with a face she hadn’t seen in years. Her mouth dropped slightly in shock, and she stood without thinking. A small smile graced her face, eyes softening as her gaze danced across his face.

“Hello, Sandor.”

The man grunted, casting a wary glance over the table that were carefully watching their interaction. 

“Hello, Little Bird. Whod’ve thought you’d be alive this long? Heard you took out that mental fuckin’ Bolton as well, how’d you do that?”

A smirk.

“I fed him to his hounds.”

The man barked out a laugh in pleasure, always a fan of blood and gore. But he sobered quickly, casting a conspiratory glance around the room before leaning forwards to mutter low in her ear.

“Be careful, Little Bird, the Dragon Whore is as fucking crazy as her old man was, and she ain’t a fan of yours.”

The words came as little surprise to Sansa, however, she could tell by the look on his face that he knew something she didn’t - but now was not the time to question it further. So she nodded, and he gave her one more look of contemplation before turning to stagger away, swiping a flagon of ale out of the hand of a random soldier and heading for the corridor.  Sansa watched him leave and then sat back on the bench, ignoring the confused looks of those who sat around her. From the corner of her eye, she could see Varys watching her, and so she gave Brienne a minute shake of her head. They all seemed to understand, and turned back to the children who were still playing, ignorant to the tense atmosphere. 

It seemed that once again she was the subject of hatred for a Queen she refused to serve, but this time it was in her home, and she was not a child. She would not be frightened, and she would not bow down, and Daenerys should be warned that this time, she knew the game, and this time, she had people on her side. 

xxxx

It was late when Sansa finally retired to her room, having been sitting in an empty kitchen with her sister for the better part of an hour after deciding to call it a night on the party that was still going strong. They had discussed a very important matter - the story of Arya and Gendry, the Baratheon Bastard. The two had slipped into the feast, hours after her sister had first left, and that was the first time Sansa had noticed the blacksmith. The way him and Arya looked at each other had quickly peaked her interest. It was the first time in her life that Sansa had ever had a girly discussion about a boy with her sister, and she knew it was something she would remember and cherish for the rest of her life. Now though, she was exhausted, and as soon as her maids had unlaced her gown, she shucked it off and sent them off to their beds, eager to get to her own. Ghost was already sprawled on the furs, dozing in the glow of the fires, and Sansa smiled at the scene as she stepped into her night slip. She had only taken one step towards her bed when there was a soft tapping at her door.

Confused, she wrapped her furs around her for modesty and cracked the door open. Podrick stood guard, increasingly vigilant since the arrival of their guests, Sam behind him with a furrowed brow and a scroll clutched in his hands. Opening the door further, she glanced between the two young men, then back to the parchment.

“Who is it from?”

Podrick and Sam shared a quick look before Sam held out the scroll, gaze flickering around to look at anything but her. Podrick shuffled his feet nervously, neither saying a word. Increasingly concerned, she reached out, noting that the plain wax seal had been broken.

“I didn’t read it, I swear. I saw the name and came straight here,” Sam cut in as her pale fingers plucked the scroll from his grasp, “I’ll leave you to read it, my lady, you know where I am if you need me.”

The quiet maester turned and strode away with the speed of someone fleeing a crime scene, and Sansa turned her questioning gaze back to Podrick. The young man smiled, small and concerned, but offered no answer. 

So Sansa turned and locked herself in her room once more, scared to look but needing to know. Perching on the edge of her bed, she unfurled the scroll, her eyes immediately shooting to the name scrawled at the bottom, blood red ink shining in the low light. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened, entire body freezing as she read the name she had been praying to read for so many years. 

_ Jaime Lannister. _

Her breath caught in her throat, and tears immediately stung at her eyes as she traced light fingers over the words that her once-husband had written. The messy scribble was so familiar that it warmed her soul, and a part of her wanted not to read the message, didn’t want to know how bad things must be for him to finally write to her after all these years. But of course she couldn’t resist, and her eyes skimmed over the words, a breathless laugh falling from her lips as she finished reading the letter that had actually been meant for Jon. 

Jaime was coming here, to Winterfell, to fight the Night King with them. He would be here within a matter of days, they would see each other for the first time in so long. So much had happened since her time in King’s Landing, and she knew that she wasn’t the same girl she had been back then, doubted Jaime was the same either. But that didn’t matter, all that mattered was that Jaime was alive and safe and coming her way. Or at least he was safe until Daenerys saw him, and that was if he managed to make it through the treacherous conditions and many wildling traps of the land surrounding Winterfell. 

Moving on instinct, Sansa rushed to the door and wrenched it open, startling Podrick into attention. 

“Please summon Lady Brienne right away, I have an urgent job for her,” she requested, nervous energy dancing through her as she paused before turning back to her room, “and don’t be seen.”

By the time the sun started to peak over the horizon, the unblemished snow dazzling in the early morning light, Sansa stood on the parapets overlooking the path out of Winterfell. Brienne, a lone figure in the vast land, cantered quickly southwards, a trusted escort for Jaime and his men. The readhead let out a long breath, the early morning chill cleansing her lungs. Jaime was coming to Winterfell. The thought brought a small smile to her face as her gaze cast down to the pendant that lay in her open palm. 

“Are you sure it’s wise to send Lady Brienne alone?”

Sansa took another second to clasp the pendant in her fingers, then tucked it into her pocket as she turned to face her brother. 

“Jaime would never hurt Brienne.”

Jon raised a disbelieving eyebrow, folding his arms as he leant against the low stone wall opposite his sister. “He’s a Lannister, Sansa, how can you trust him?”

She huffed a whisper of a laugh, turning back to watch Brienne disappear into the horizon, gloved hands splayed on the wall to ground her. 

“You don’t know him, Jon. He’s a good man when it counts. ” 

There was a defensive bite to her tone, and Jon let out a slight wince as he came to stand by her side, gaze tracing the side of her face. Slowly, he reached a hand out to touch her arm, ducking his head slightly to try and force eye contact. 

“Sansa, please. We’re family. You, Arya and Bran are the most important people in my life, and I swear it on our father’s grave that I allied with Dany because we need her help. You haven’t seen these things, these creatures,” he paused, and Sansa finally looked up to meet his concerned gaze, “we need her army, her dragons. Otherwise we die. There’s no other option here.”

Down below in the courtyard, the castle was slowly coming to life as preparations for the war continued, and the sounds drifting up were the only noise permeating the thick, silent air between the siblings. Releasing a slow breath, Sansa raised her hand to cover Jon’s. 

“I know. I know that you did what you thought was right, Jon, but you don’t see beyond this war with the dead. I’m the Lady of Winterfell, I have a duty to every single person in The North, The Riverlands, The Vale - they all swore to me, and every decision I make has to be centred around them. If we win this war, what happens to them? They’re forced to bow to a Queen they don’t believe in? A Targaryen that has barely set foot in Westeros and thinks she deserves to own it?” Her grasp on Jon’s hand tightens slightly as passion leaks into her voice. “This is our home, our family legacy, and after everyone we’ve lost, everything we’ve been through to get our home back, you’re asking me to hand it over to a stranger.”

Jon is silent, and Sansa releases his hand, shoulders slumping in disappointment as he drops his gaze from hers. 

“I love you Jon, and I trust you with my life. But I just can’t agree with you on this. I can’t put the fate of our people in her hands, and I will not bend the knee to her. I’ve spent so many years of my life being passed around between our enemies, and I won’t let that happen again. Not ever.”

With that, she turned on her heel, striding away towards the steps when Jon called out her name. She didn’t turn back around, merely paused in place. 

“She’s seen how much the common folk and the lords love you - she feels threatened. Be careful.”

Sansa turned her head, locking eyes with him over her shoulder.

“If you truly believed she was a good, just queen, you wouldn’t have to warn me to watch my back.” 

She gave it a second, then walked away to let him mull over her words - she had a guest to prepare for. 

**Jaime **

For miles and miles, there had been nothing around them. No people, no animals, just thick snow that blew into their faces and chilled their bones, the glaring white stretching to the horizon in every direction, the edge of the forest in their peripheral the only confirmation they were still heading in the right direction rather than in circles. So when Jaime saw a figure in the distance, at first he thought he was imagining things. But after blinking the snowflakes from his eyelashes and squinting to see as clearly as he could, the figure was still there. A chestnut horse and a rider clad in silver armor, alone and coming their way. A single knight hardly possessed a threat when so vastly outnumbered, but still he drew his sword and urged his horse forward.  His destrier picked it’s way through the knee-deep snow as best as it could, but he was used to southron roads and found it difficult to pick up any sort of speed. The stranger was obviously used to the North, the horse having no trouble cantering through the snowdrifts, and soon they were mere paces apart. Both parties halted, all of his men with their swords drawn and staring warily ahead, ready in case more waited further back, obscured by the snow.

The opposer didn’t draw their sword, only urged their hose even further forward. Once within speaking distance, they reached up to take off their helmet, shaking out their blonde hair with a stern face that Jaime had missed dearly. He couldn’t help but smirk in glee at Brienne, tugging off his own helmet so they could see eye to eye. 

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, wench.”

Brienne shot him a deeply unamused look, but a small smile still begrudgingly graced her lips.

“Still as charming as ever, Kingslayer.”

The two shared a brief moment in silence before Brienne turned to address Jaime’s party as a whole - or at least those close enough to hear her over the howling wind.

“The Lady of Winterfell sent me personally to welcome you all to The North. I’m here to lead you safely to the castle, where you will be received.” She turned back to Jaime, dropping her voice slightly. “I can’t promise that Daenerys won’t know of your impending arrival and wish to send out a welcoming party of her own.”

Jaime snorted, raising a golden brow. 

“And by that you mean send out a horde of Dothraki screamers to behead us all? Or send out her dragons to burn more Westerners who may oppose her?”

Brienne’s forehead scrunched in confusion at his sarcastic statement, both their horses stamping impatiently as they were kept standing still in the snow for too long. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“I’ll explain later,” he replied, pressing his heels into the flanks of his steed to push him forward, Brienne dropping into step beside him and the clanking of armor indicating that his men followed closely behind. “For now, you must tell me. How is Sansa?”

Brienne was taken aback slightly, sombered by the serious expression Jaime bore as he stared resolutely ahead of them. Sensing he wanted the truth and not some empty placation, Brienne swallowed and mulled over her words as she too turned to face the horizon. 

“The Dragon Queen is not fond of her. She sees her as a threat, a worthy queen with a loyal following. Lady Sansa controls three of the seven kingdoms after all.”

It was Jaime’s turn to be taken aback as he spared her a shocked glance. “Three? Since when?”

“Since The Vale and The Riverlands swore to her. They love her, Northerners included, and I believe that should she want to, she could fully claim power for the North from Jon.” She paused, sighing deeply. “Then comes the issue of Jon swearing to Daenerys. Lady Sansa and her sister, as well as all their closest Lords and Ladies, refuse to bend the knee to the Mother of Dragons, despite Jon’s insistence that the North is hers.” Another swallow, and her voice dropped to little more than a frightened whisper. “I think Sansa is in trouble.”

The Lannister gritted his teeth and pushed his horse to move faster still, eyes desperately waiting to see the gates of the castle appear over the crest of the hill, to know that he was close to his dear wife. 

**Sansa**

Arya shot her a sharp glare for the fifth time that meal as Sansa once again resumed tapping her fingers against the table agitatedly. The whole castle was gathered within the Great Hall to break their fast, but Sansa’s thoughts were lost somewhere in the Northern territory, knowing Jaime stepped ever closer to her with every thrum of her fingers on wood.  Growing increasingly irritated, Arya trapped her sister’s hand beneath her own in one fluid motion, fixing the elder Stark with a furious, demanding gaze.

“Sorry,” Sansa whispered, averting her eyes back to her untouched meal.

“Sansa,” Arya muttered, releasing her hand and picking up her knife as she noticed the eyes of Tyrion and Varys watching their interaction. “What’s going on with you? What are you worried about?”

Also wary of prying eyes, Sansa took a long sip from her water goblet, and buttered her bread till the stares dropped away. 

“Jaime’s on his way.”

Arya’s fork would have clattered to the table if not for her quick reflexes, and she struck her sister with a bewildered stare, a frown slowly creeping into her features.

“I’d totally forgotten you were married to the Kingslayer.” 

Ignoring the sharp look of annoyance, Arya chewed her lip in thought. 

“Isn’t that a good thing? That he’s coming? I mean, he’s a skilled fighter, and - as much as I hate to admit it - we need all the help we can get, so shouldn’t you be pleased?”

A deep, ragged sigh had Sansa slumping minutely in her chair, avoiding her little sister’s curious eyes.

“I am happy. As you say, we need him, need his men...but we were wed, Arya. Years ago, before Baelish and Ramsay and Armies of the Dead. I’m not exactly sure how I’m supposed to act around him anymore.”

“Was he good to you?”

A small smile gracing her lips, Sansa once again turned to her younger sister.

“Always.”

“Then be happy, Sansa. Fuck knows you deserve to be.”

They shared an understanding smile and turned away, both thinking very different thoughts about the Lannister man that came their way.

But Jaime’s impending arrival wasn’t mentioned that morning, wasn’t mentioned in the war council that afternoon, or even in the evening meal that consisted of only the lords and ladies for once. Indeed, the next day no one spoke of it, and by the evening of the third day, Sansa approached Jon where he stood on the outskirts of the training yard, conversing with Podrick. The younger man bowed his head towards Sansa with a satisfied grin and excused himself, leaving the brother and sister to stand in a moment of mildly uncomfortable silence.

“Why did you not tell Daenerys about Jaime?”

Jon exhaled deeply, shifting his feet and scratching his chin. 

“She’s not exactly a fan of his.”

“Who exactly  _ is  _ she a fan of?” Sansa mused exasperatedly with an eye roll. Jon shot her a hard look and she sobered, linking her hand through the crook of his elbow, closing the gap between them. 

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Just because she can’t send the Unsullied out to slit their throats before they get here, doesn’t mean they ain’t gonna have a hard time when they do get here.”

Sansa smiled - a cold, wicked thing.

“Let her try.”

**Jaime**

He had blisters on his feet, on his hand, even on his thighs where the leather of his saddle rubbed unforgivingly. He was sure he smelled like shit, was in dire need of a shave and a decent meal, and yet he couldn’t not smile as the towers of Winterfell shone like a beacon over the crest of the final hill.  Brienne kept narrowing her eyes at him skeptically, but he paid her no mind as he urged his weary horse onwards. He’d had so much time to imagine what the reunion was going to be like - if he made it beyond the castle walls without being burned to a crisp by a dragon, of course. In reality, he didn’t know Sansa, not anymore. From the snippets he’d gathered from Cersei’s spies, she had suffered greatly since leaving KIngs Landing, and although he could pray that his company was welcomed, it might not be.  She was not his wife anymore, and he would have to be mindful not to act as though she were. That didn’t mean, however, that he couldn’t be pleased to see her, and he already longed to spend time with her, to talk to her about their lives apart, or simply be in her presence. He missed the evenings of working at his desk, her calm presence a welcome reprise as she sat on their bed and sewed, singing or talking or simply relishing the quiet. 

But this was Winterfell in war-time, and there were admittedly far more important things afoot that required his attention. He needed to focus, keep his wits about him as he led his men into what  _ was  _ enemy territory. 

For example, he was acutely aware that of the amount of knights and soldiers that seemed to be conveniently positioned around the castle, all watching him and his men as if they would love nothing more than to stab their swords and spears right through his ribcage - a dream that most men seemed to share.  Brienne was unfazed, and where he tugged the reins to approach in a slow, measured walk, she trotted on past him, head in the air and a judgemental, steely gaze ensuring no one made a move towards them. The clatter of hooves on stone and ice attracted the attention of the occupants of the courtyard, and by the time Jaime, Brienne and Ser Daven had slowed to a halt in the castle grounds, all work seemed to have stopped as wary eyes pinned them in place from all around. 

Dismounting, a cautious stable boy came and took the reins of his horse, and Jaime felt very unsure of himself all of a sudden. Just him and his general, surrounded by people who would all happily see him dead - a comforting thought. 

Then a door on the walkway was flung open, and there appeared Sansa. She was, in a word, sensational. Her red hair blazed in the weak sunlight, she was cloaked in black - a colour he had never seen her in before, he realised - that accentuated her pale skin and searing blue eyes. She was tall, impressive and intimidating, and a strange sense of pride thrummed through his heart.  Her eyes met his the instant she’d stepped out, and though the expression on her face didn’t change, the sudden glassiness of her eyes had him huffing a breath of disbelief that she was really in front of them. No one in the courtyard meant anything to him as she descended the steps, and he fought the urge to run and scoop her into his arms with every fibre of his being. She was the Lady of Winterfell, it wouldn’t be proper - but since when had he given a fuck about what was proper?

In honesty, he was mildly terrified that she would rebuff him. So he waited, eyes never leaving hers, and dropped to one knee as she stopped ten feet from him. His brain was furiously informing him that he needed to say something, but the words weren’t coming as he blinked hopelessly under her steady watch. Then a wistful smile cracked her lips, her eyes shone, and before he knew it she had pulled him up and threw her arms around his neck.  It was muscle memory that had him wrapping his arms tightly around her back, one hand fisted in her tresses as her face pressed into his neck. It could have been seconds or days that he held her for, but either way it was much too soon when two men coughed suggestively in unison. Ser Daven, who looked an equal mix of confused, uncomfortable, and intrigued, and Tyrion, who cast a quick glance to the side before fixing his brother with a warm smile. 

Noticing the warning look from his younger brother, Jaime suddenly realised that, yes, other people were indeed watching them, including the infamous Dragon Queen. 

She looked furious, blazing eyes and a glower trained on him as he returned Sansa to her feet. Unfazed, Jaime turned back to his once-wife, flesh hand stroking through her hair as he committed her face to memory - she looked unbelievably different, but it wasn’t physically.  It was Sansa who pulled away first, turning to look at the Dragon Queen and her entourage. Surprisingly, she didn’t move away to stand with the others, just stepped away enough to leave a respectful distance between them, while remaining a supportive presence at his side. 

By the Targareyan’s shoulder stood Jon Snow, who watched the interaction between Jaime and Sansa curiously, and was pretty much the only one of her group that didn’t fix him with a look somewhere between disgust and judgement - apart from Tyrion. Interesting. 

The silver woman stepped forward, a bitter, self-righteous smirk on her face, and oh, did he hate her already.

“Welcome to Winterfell, Kingslayer. I hope you’ve come to pay for your crimes. Let’s start with the murder of my father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like a lot of other people (I assume), I figured I might as well get back to writing while I'm stuck at home in self isolation. It's been a long time so I'm quite rusty, but I hope you guys enjoyed it anyway, and that everyone's staying safe and washing those hands.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reunions take place and there's tension brewing in the waters

  
  
  


**Sansa**

Anger was hardly a stranger to Sansa. Stone cold tendrils of fury wound themselves around her heart when her father was murdered before her eyes, and more vines had taken root over the years. It didn’t make the anger she felt now any less genuine, didn’t stop her head from pounding and her vision blurring slightly at the edges as she glared in outrage as Grey Worm and his men ripped the sword from Jaime’s hands, pushing the exhausted man towards the Great Hall. 

The mix of disdain and arrogance on Daenerys’ face had her wishing, not for the first time, that she was a braver woman, a skilled warrior like her sister. She wanted nothing more than to take the sword from the nearest knight and stick it straight through the chest of the spiteful Queen. 

But she couldn’t help Jaime if she was dead. 

Tyrion was rushing after Daenerys into the hall, whispering hurriedly, undoubtedly arguing his brother’s case but Daenerys - as usual - didn’t seem to be listening to him. Once again she was struck with the thought that Tyrion had rather lost his edge in the years since she last saw him. Not that that mattered now, what mattered was ensuring Jaime made it out of the hall alive. It wasn’t just the Dragon Queen she needed to convince either, but the Northern Lords and Ladies who undoubtedly held admittedly justifiable grudges against the Lannisters. Grudges she had to make clear were to be reserved strictly for Cersei, not Jaime. 

Once she’d guaranteed his imminent survival, she could afford to feel the emotions she was currently suppressing at the fact that her once-husband was here, in her home. 

“Are you ok?” questioned Jon suddenly from her left, a warm hand softly grasping her elbow to catch her attention.

Sansa took a deep breath before facing her brother, smoothing her face into her usual neutral expression and nodding solemnly, giving away no hints of her true thoughts or feelings. This clearly frustrated Jon, and her brother looked ready to start a full on argument right there in the courtyard, perhaps would have done if Sansa hadn’t started walking into the castle without warning. Jon stuttered on his words, watching in disbelief and irritation while Brienne snapped to attention and followed Sansa into the Hall, the Warden of the North trailing behind sullenly. 

Unsurprisingly, Daenerys hadn’t waited for Sansa or Jon, and was telling tales of how her brother had once told her that Jaime was the worst man to ever live, or something of the sort, when Sansa swept into the Hall and took her seat at the head table. Daenerys only faltered in her speech slightly, seemingly put out by the silent air of anger and steady power that currently radiated from the redhead. Sansa wanted so badly to tell Daenerys to take her men and her dragons and get out of Winterfell immediately, but she needed to be smart. She still had to think of a way to make them trust Jaime - or at least tolerate him. The trust could come later, if possible. 

“Even if we defeat the dead, she’ll have more than enough to destroy the survivors-”

“We?” Interrupted Daenerys, face sour as she made a conscious effort to look intimidating - it wasn’t working. 

The whole room kept a suspicious gaze glued to Jaime as the Lannister dropped his gaze for a split second, the only glimpse of the discomfort he must have been currently feeling, unarmed and on trial in a room full of enemies.

“I promised to fight for the living, and I intend to keep that promise.”

The barest hint of a wistful smile pulled at Sansa’s cheeks as they made fleeting eye contact, and she realised that deep down she’d been terrified that in their time apart, Cersei would have sunk her talons back into him, twisted him into something dark and unrecognisable. She needed to know he was still a good, honest man if she was going to put her life on the line for him. 

Daenerys pushed out of her seat, expression livid. “You killed my father, Lannister, and now you stand here-”

“I stopped a  _ murderer.  _ Your father was a fool, an arrogant mad man who wanted to slaughter his own people as they slept! He was happy to set the world ablaze around him,” Jaime spat, words hot and vicious as fire. “I refused to let him do so. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I had to, because I fight for the people, the commoners who can’t fight for themselves.  _ That’s  _ why I’m here,  _ Your Grace.” _

Murmurs filled the crowd as Jaime stood his ground against the plain and pure fury on Daenerys’ face. The Queen was silent, mouth opening and closing without a sound as she choked on her anger. Sansa had to speak up now, before Daenerys ordered for Jaime to be stabbed where he stood. She wished she could offer up short and sharp words of her own, but now was not the time for her to tell the Dragon Queen exactly what she thought of her. No, she needed to lie and smooth the waters. After all, Tyrion was making no headway, so it was down to her. 

“Your Grace,” Sansa interrupted, all eyes on her as she stood from her seat, and she was well aware that the startled stares of everyone in the room came from the fact that that was the first time Sansa had addressed Daenerys with a modicum of respect. She’d be a fool to miss the opportunity to butter up the Queen before asking something of her, and so she lowered her eyes in a sign of false deference. 

Daenerys looked taken aback that Sansa had addressed her at all, and she used the lack of reply to roll on with her speech before Daenerys had a chance to shut her up. After all, she wasn’t the one who needed convincing. So instead, she looked around the room as she spoke, meeting the eyes of every person who looked her way.

“Ser Jaime is a Lannister by name, not by practice. He is not his sister - he is not cruel and vindictive. I know he hurt your family, Your Grace,” Sansa began, turning to the Queen, “he hurt mine too. But those were times of war, when all the Houses were enemies, when everyone turned on everyone because they had no common enemy. Now, we do. The Night King is coming with his army.” Turning once more, Sansa addressed her elder brother directly. “You said yourself, we need every man we can get. Ser Jaime is not just a man, nor is he just a knight - he is a commander and a tactician. He’s a valuable asset that we can’t afford to turn away when we are this close to a battle unlike anything we’ve ever faced.”

Sansa paused for a moment, letting her words sink in as she turned to face Jaime, who was looking at her with reverence.

“I trust this man with my life. I trust him to do anything in his power to fight for the innocent, because he’s not the man he once was. We cannot win this war if we’re too focused on past grievances to see what’s in front of us.”

Silence met her words, but many around the room were shifting in their seats, making eyes at one another as they realised she made a good point. At the head table, Daenerys looked to Jon for his opinion, receiving a nod in support of his sister.

Begrudgingly, Daenerys nodded at Grey Worm, grinding her teeth as the sword was returned to its owner. Sansa was sure even Daenerys could hear the insolent sarcasm that hid beneath Jaime’s words of thanks, but the woman didn’t reply, merely stood to address the room, her companions quickly following suit. Defiantly, Sansa waited a moment before she pushed out of her chair and stalked from the room, aware that the Northern Lords and Ladies had stood when she had, not when Daenerys had. The thought brought a smirk to her face, and she sauntered down the corridor, proud of her achievements. 

Jaime would survive long enough for them to have that talk. 

**Jaime**

It was hours before he was finally left alone. 

Tyrion had led him from the hall after his trial, taking him to his quarters and pouring them both cups of wine as they caught up. Jaime had been very interested to know why in the seven hells Tyrion decided to join the campaign of a righteous brat. Tyrion’s promises that Daenerys was actually a good ruler and a kind soul were hardly convincing. In fact, the desperate way he raced to justify his beliefs was downright worrisome. 

Part of Jaime thought Tyrion knew, deep down. His brother had always been so clever, there was no way he could not see that glint in the girls eyes - the same one had been in the eyes of the Mad King, the eyes of Cersei, even Joffrey. It was the look of someone mad with power, someone who saw themselves as above all, happy to abuse their position for their own gains or amusement. It was a look that made Jaime shiver. He had seen it in her violet eyes after he had told her exactly what her father had been. It was ironic, really, that she was so adamant to prove that she was not her father whilst doing the exact opposite. 

At the end of the day, though, he couldn’t give a shit about Daenerys or what she thought of him. All he cared about right now was Sansa. The way she spoke up in his defence, putting herself in a position of possible opposition from her people to champion him had been a hit to his heart. It was ridiculous really. He shouldn’t still love her. He wasn’t even meant to love her in the first place. Yet here they were. 

He wanted to go find her. He needed to thank her, and hug her, and hear that she was ok, and then hug her again and perhaps not let go this time. This wasn’t his castle though, and he was anything but welcome within these walls. Maybe Daenerys wasn’t going to have him publicly executed, but he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t an Unsullied with a knife hidden in a dark corner waiting for him to wander. It also wasn't proper for him to turn up and invite himself to the Lady of Winterfell’s rooms, and although he didn’t care about appearances, Sansa might. 

Maybe he should just go to bed. 

He was unable to commit to either idea, instead stuck in between, stood in the middle of the room, half-dressed, staring at the door. He was a war commander, a tactician, a knight - and he couldn’t even find the courage to go speak to his once-wife. How embarrassing. 

In the end, he didn’t need to make a choice as it was made for him. There was a heavy rapping on the door that had him jumping from his daydreams and snapping to attention, swiftly throwing the door open to meet the unimpressed face of Brienne. 

“Lady Sansa requests your presence in her chambers.”

His heart fluttered at the words. She wanted to see him, thank The Seven. 

“One moment,” he exclaimed, rushing back into his room to collect his sword. Better to be safe. On his way back to the door, he caught sight of his reflection in the dusty looking-glass. His hair and beard were matted and overgrown, there was an ugly cut on his forehead, and his doublet and trousers were dirty and well-worn. He looked ghastly.

“Would you like me to help you pick out a nice gown?”

Jaime bristled at the smirk on Brienne’s face, pushing past her to stalk down the corridor without waiting for her even though he had no clue where he was going. If he tried to tame his hair a little as he walked then there was no one around to see but Brienne, who only scoffed light heartedly as she pushed past him to lead the way. 

He could barely remember the last time he was in Winterfell all those years ago, and it was crazy to think of how different his life had been back then - how different  _ he _ had been before Sansa and the hardships of life had made him into a better person. Not a good one, but at least better. The old him would have been disgusted at the fact that current him was nervous to talk to a woman, would never have even considered that he could care for someone other than Cersei. 

Then Brienne knocked on a heavy wooden door guarded by Podrick - who gave him a knowing grin - and all thoughts left his head as the door swung open to reveal Sansa in all her glory. The glow of the torches illuminated her serene face, her hair loose down her back and clad in a simple dark grey dress that struck an elegant and imposing picture. He was dumbstruck. 

She smiled, small but warm, and backed up a step to invite him inside, and it was only with a sharp nudge from Brienne that he managed to shake himself out of it and stumble forwards into her chambers. The door shut behind them, and him and Sansa were alone for the first time in years. 

It was silent as they stood several feet from each other, the crackling and snapping of the fire the only sound. The room was reasonably warm, but that wasn’t the reason for the sweat beading on the back of his neck. Ever so slowly, without even realising he was moving, he laid down his sword on a chair and stepped up to face her. She was even taller than he remembered, her head barely tipping back to keep his gaze. There were mere inches between them, and he was hyper-aware of the wisp of her warm breath on his face and the myriad of colours in her irises. 

Hesitantly, he reached with his good hand to brush back a single lock of hair from her face, before cupping her cheeks with more care than he knew he even possessed. He could barely even blink, her small smile and warm eyes drawing him in like honeyed wine, intoxicating and overwhelming. 

“Hello, wife,” he finally spoke in hushed tones full of wonder.

“Hello, Jaime,” she returned, smile growing wistful and eyes sad. He couldn’t bear that look, it had his heart wrenching and he couldn’t stop himself for pulling her into another hug. Their arms wound around each other’s waist, his face in her neck as they squeezed tightly. It was he who reluctantly pulled away first, not retreating from her personal space though as he still held her loosely around the waist. Her small hands slipped up his doublet to rest against his chest. 

“I missed you,” she whispered, gaze dropping to where her fingers picked at a loose thread. “I missed you more than I ever thought I would.”

He exhaled sharply, sheer relief that she hadn’t forgotten about him or what they had taking over as he smiled, lopsided and sincere. 

“I never stopped thinking about you. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to flee King’s Landing and ride wherever I needed to go to find you.”

Her face was vulnerable, eyes wide and tone rough as she replied. “So why didn’t you?”

It was like a knife to his chest, and he choked on his words as fear that she was about to push him away clawed at his heart. “I wanted to, Sansa, I swear to you I wanted nothing more, but I couldn’t. Cersei swore she would kill you if I left to find you, and we both know she wasn’t lying. I couldn’t risk putting you in danger. I didn’t even know if you’d want to see me.”

It was Sansa’s turn to look sorrowful, her small hands cradling his jaw and lifting his eyes to meet hers from where they had sunk to look at the floor. 

“Of course I wanted to see you, Jaime. I was going to write to you but it was too dangerous. I didn’t think you’d care.” Her eyes suddenly widened, her grip on his shirt tightening. “Jaime, it wasn’t me that killed Joffrey. I know I hated him but I never would have done that to you-”

“Sansa, it’s ok, I know,” he reassured gently, his real hand covering hers placatingly. “Olenna confessed to it, and even if it had been you, I wouldn’t have held it against you. He was a snotty little fucker who had it coming.” 

Sansa blinked in surprise, thoughtful expression taking over her face as she murmured something he didn’t quite catch under her breath. He considered questioning it, but decided that he didn’t care right now. There were more important questions to be asked, so he drew her gaze back to his with a squeeze of his hand. 

“Are you ok?”

**Sansa**

She had no idea how to reply to that. She was ok, she supposed. She had her family back, her home back. She had trusted friends and good health, so she shouldn’t complain. But she also had nightmares that sent her into panics, paranoia over the safety of those she cared for while the dragon queen prowled the corridors as if she owned not only the castle, but everyone inside. She was covered in scars and was often lonely and was always tired, and sometimes she wanted to lay down in the snow by the Weirwood Tree and never stand again. 

She didn’t say any of this.

“I’m ok. What about you?” She looked for permission as she gently took hold of the golden hand, a slightly hesitant nod her cue to lift it and examine the grooves and weight. Brienne had told her about the hand, and she had been furious and devastated, knew that Jaime would have felt worthless if he couldn’t swing a sword, but to see it in person sent a fresh wave of fury though her. 

“I’m alive, that’s all anyone can really hope for these days,” he responded drily, watching her closely as she continued to run soft fingers over his fake ones. He had told himself that Sansa was far too kind to be disgusted by his disability like Cersei had been, but he hadn’t fully convinced himself. Seeing the care she took as she held it in her own reminded him of how lucky he was to love someone like her. 

Something had shifted in the air, and when Sansa raised her eyes to his once more, she was met with blazing blue, a familiar heated look she remembered all too well. His hand fell from her grasp, the room suddenly blaringly hot as his gaze bore into her. When he moved to pull her to his body, sharp and sudden, all she felt was panic spiking through her blood as she pushed him away violently. She had to tamp down a shout, a pathetic whimper leaving her lips instead, as she backed up a step or two without realising what she was doing. 

Jaime’s hand faltered in the air, twitching as if he were about to reach out for her again before it fell to his side. His mouth pulled into a frown, eyes sad as he processed the rejection.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, ragged and sorrowful. “I shouldn’t have done that-”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Sansa barked, trying desperately to calm her thumping heart into a regular rhythm, gripping the edge of the table behind her to help stay upright. “We haven’t seen each other in years, Jaime, you should have asked. Don’t be presumptuous.”

Reprimanded, Jaime dropped his face to the floor, shoulders slumping as he whispered another apology. There was silence between them as Sansa breathed deeply, heart settling and the fear rolling off of her as the cold, fresh air from the window filled her lungs. 

“It’s not that-” she started, cutting herself off with a sigh and trying again. “Things have happened to me, Jaime. I’m not the same person I once was, we’re no longer married, and we don’t know each other like we used to. I’m happy you’re here, I really am, and I still care for you so deeply...but things are different. You can’t expect us to just pick up where we were.”

There was shame in his eyes as he nodded in understanding, good hand rubbing over his thigh in a show of nerves that she was familiar with. He inhaled through his nose and let it all out sharply, looking up with a hollow, cracked smile. 

“You’re right, I was being foolish. I’m just happy to see you.”

Sansa felt a pang of guilt at the sadness in his words, but she knew she was right to set clear boundaries. In two steps, she was back in front of him, one hand grasping his with a half smile. 

“Once we win the war, we’ll have all the time in the world to reacquaint ourselves.” 

The blonde huffed a laugh at her assured words, stroking his thumb over the back of her hand just once in self-indulgence. 

“You’re right. First things first, what do we do about Daenerys?”

Sansa smirked and shrugged a shoulder playfully. 

“I have a couple of ideas.”

xxxx

_ She blinked groggily against the weak sunlight streaming through the fluttering wisps of curtain. Still half asleep, a single green eye cracked open to gauge the brightness of the room, not surprised to find that the sun was high in the sky and she’d slept through much of the morning.  _

_ It had been a late night spent drinking and dancing in the Palace grounds to celebrate the wedding of one of the more important Lannister cousins - Lyrel or Loral or something, she didn’t care enough to learn their names. It had been fun, for the most part. Cersei had been in a bad mood, which was actually good news as she was too busy drinking alone to torment Sansa, and Joffrey was distracted by his new fiancee.  _

_ She had worried for Margaery at first, but it was clear her concerns were not warranted. The Tyrells clearly had big plans, and Sansa was happy to be kept out of them to remain in this welcome reprise from Joffrey and his abuse.  _

_ Not that he hit her anymore. He wouldn’t dare, not now she was married to his uncle. Well, father, but she wasn’t supposed to know that. A month after her wedding, after he got incredibly drunk at a feast, he had slapped her for her ‘insolence’, and it was the first time she had ever seen Jaime angry. Not just angry, furious. He had hit the boy right back, reprimanded him in front of everyone with a thinly-veiled threat and whisked Sansa back to their chambers to spend the rest of the night fussing over her with gritted teeth and blazing eyes.  _

_ As if he sensed he was the subject of her thoughts, the arm around her waist squeezed mercilessly, fingers digging in under her ribs to make her squeal and squirm, now wide awake. She laughed breathlessly, rolling over in the bed to face Jaime, his eyes closed and face burrowed into the pillow, but with a smirk that betrayed the innocent picture. Glaring playfully, she poked him in the waist in retaliation, but he didn’t even stir. She tried again a little higher, but still nothing. With an exasperated huff that turned quickly into a grin, she prodded him hard with one long finger in the centre of his chest.  _

_ “Ow! Alright, alright, I’m awake,” he grumbled, voice rough from sleep but still lilting in amusement. His eyes blinked open to meet her gaze, bare inches between them on the pillow, and smiled happily. “Morning, wife.” _

_ “Morning, Jaime,” Sansa whispered, unwilling to break the peace. This was her favourite time of the day, the few minutes that she and Jaime had to themselves in the mornings before he had to go perform his duties and she had to watch her every move for fear of further grief from his sister and son.  _

_ Sadly, it was already late, and they couldn’t afford to loaf around like she wished. There were distant voices down the corridor, doors banging open and shut, and she knew it wasn’t long before someone would come to rouse Jaime on orders from Tywin. As if on cue, there was a tap at the door to their chambers, most likely Shae and Jaime’s steward Ben here to get them ready for the day. She frowned at the interruption, and Jaime laughed quietly, cupping her jaw and tapping the corner of her mouth with his thumb. _

_ “Don’t pout, love, we’ll have dinner together in our solar tonight, just the two of us, ok?” _

_ She instantly perked up, squeezing his hand once before jumping from the bed to throw back the curtain and let the light in, rounding the bed to meet Jaime as he stood and stretched. His bare arms came to rest around her waist, the familiar weight and warmth most appreciated, and she wrapped her own hands around the back of his neck to pull him in for a slow, sweet kiss.  _

_ She didn’t have anyone to reference against, but she was sure Jaime was a very skilled kisser. The way his hands squeezed her hips, the softness of his lips, the grazing of his tongue against hers. It made her dizzy.  _

_ Sadly, it was over too soon, and with one last peck and a reiteration of his promise for later, he left their bedroom to let in Shae and Ben. She hummed to herself under her breath as she practically danced into her dressing room, smiling at her own reflection and missing the fond eye roll from Shae as she began to prepare her bath. _

xxxx

It was the chill down her spine that woke her, and she cursed the North for its cold for the first time in her adult life. She didn’t want to wake from the dream, greedy for those blissful memories of her time with Jaime, but once she woke she was never one to fall back asleep. 

Sansa heaved a disappointed sigh and sat up to stretch languidly, blinking the sleep out of her eyes to see that the fire had died down to mere embers during the night - that explained why the room was freezing. She sighed again, reaching around awkwardly to try and rub at the kink in her shoulder blade, eyes unseeing as the memory replayed through her head. Simpler times. 

But now was not the time for nostalgia. They were on the cusp of a war, she had enemies in her home and people to care for and things to prepare. She needed a clear head, free of emotions, and so with some great difficulty, she shook off everything the dream had stirred up inside her and began to prepare for the day. 

It was still dark outside when she was bathed and dressed, hair pulled into a single braid swinging between her shoulders. She could see the barest smudge of orange on the horizon from her window, but despite the likelihood that most of the castle would still be asleep, it was time Sansa got on with her tasks. Because of the hour, she hadn’t expected to see anyone but guards and servants, so when she decided to start her day with a walk around the walls to watch the sunrise, she was surprised by the figure standing in front of her, hands clenched on the wall and head bowed. 

Looking around for any sign of danger and seeing nothing, Sansa took a tentative step forward.

“Sam?”

No reply. 

As cautious as if she were approaching a wild animal, she stretched out a hand as slowly as possible to place on his arm.

“Sam.”

The man jumped as her hand clasped his arm, turning to her in shock. His face was red, eyes wet and jumping around to look at anything but her face as he stammered through a greeting. “Sa- I mean, Lady Sansa, I- I‘m sorry I wasn’t- I mean-”

“Sam!” The redhead interrupted, brows knitting in concern. “Calm down, it’s ok. Take a few breaths.”

Obedient as ever, he did as she suggested, gulping down air like he was drowning, and eventually he seemed to pass the panic and shame crossed his features as he began to ramble. 

“Sorry, My Lady, I didn’t mean to distract you from your duties. Please forgive me, I’ve just received some bad news and I’m not quite myself. Not that that’s anything for you to worry about.”

“Please, Sam, you’re a guest in this castle and someone I think of as a friend. If there’s anything you want to talk about, you can tell me.” 

She was sure he was going to refuse, and she was ready to insist that he share what was troubling him, but was surprised when he nodded reluctantly. With an encouraging smile, Sansa withdrew her hand and told him to speak freely. The young man took a steadying breath and looked past Sansa to see if there was anyone around - no one but Podrick who stood out of ear shot, watching out the corner of his eye - then leant in closer to whisper under his breath.

“Did Jon tell you about what happened on the Goldroad? Or Ser Jaime?” Sansa shook her head, and Sam quickly continued in hushed, hurried tones. “Daenerys and the Dothraki attacked a Lannister army wagon train heading back to King's Landing. She burned their supplies and then when most of the men were already dead, she gave the remaining soldiers an option - bend the knee or die.”

He paused, swallowing thickly as his eyes turned glassy and Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. She could see where this was heading.

“My father and brother refused to bend the knee to her, and she had them burnt alive,” he sputtered, a single fat tear rolling down his cheek as his voice shook. “I didn’t get on well with my father, but I loved my brother, and now they’re both gone. She murdered them.”

Sansa’s heart dropped to her stomach in sympathy for the man before her, struck with how unfair the world was that such a kind-hearted man should feel such grief. She had heard what Sam had done, how he had saved Jorah Mormont’s life, and this was his payment. With conscious effort, Sansa lifted her careful mask and met Sam’s gaze with a sorrowful look.

“I am so sorry, Sam. I know how much it hurts to lose family without the chance to say goodbye. I know it’s not anywhere near the same, but I want you to know that you, Gilly and Little Sam will always have a place at Winterfell.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief as Sam spared her a watery smile of gratitude. 

“Thank you, My Lady, it means more to me than you’ll know.” He stopped, wiped his eyes and coughed roughly. “Now, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I should return to my duties.”

With one last forced smile and an unnecessary, sloppy bow he hurried off past her and back into the castle. The sky had lightened to a dark, murky grey, the orange streaked with pink, and Sansa stared quietly into the distance for a moment before turning and striding back towards the castle. Podrick watched closely as she approached, falling into step beside her as they walked the parapets.

“Are you alright, Lady Sansa?”

Her eyes were hard, jaw clenched as she pondered the dangerous mystery that was Daenerys Targareyen. 

“I’m fine, Podrick, but there’s something I need you to do for me. Do it quietly, and make sure no one pays you any attention, understood?”

Absorbing the seriousness of the mood, he nodded sharply and looked straight ahead with a stern expression.

“Yes, My Lady.”

**Jaime **

  
  
  


Jaime was acutely aware of the distrusting glances he was given everywhere he went. It was highly uncomforting, but he knew that the Northerners wouldn’t dare kill him against Sansa and Jon’s word. Daenerys’ people, however, he didn’t trust at all. For that reason, he never went anywhere without his sword on his belt and his eyes on stalks, constantly aware of his surroundings and ready to defend himself at the smallest of signs. 

It was tiring, being on constant alert, but it was sadly necessary. If he was going to die in Winterfell, it would be in a ferocious battle for the good of men, not from being stabbed in the back and left to bleed out in the courtyard before the fight was even upon them. The Godswood provided some well-needed peace and solitude, the sounds of the castle instantly melting away as he ventured further through the trees. 

Sansa had always spoken about the woods with such reverence, and he had never understood why. Now, he could see it. People often talked about the magic that ran in the ground and blood of the North, and here he could almost believe those stories. There was something in the air besides the crisp scent of fresh snow, something more in the still calm of the unmoving trees and frozen ponds.

He had never walked into a place and felt such an instant wash of calm. As he wandered aimlessly, his thoughts turned to his conversation with Sansa the day before. It had been a blessed reunion, validation from the knowledge that she hadn’t forgotten about him as he feared. He had been so wrapped up in his own feelings and the sheer grace of her presence that he hadn't thought about trying to kiss her, he just did, and he wanted to kick himself for it. 

He hadn’t meant to, it just happened, but he shouldn’t have let it. The terror in her reaction chilled him to the core, and he had been unable to sleep after as his thoughts were too consumed with what could have caused such a visceral reaction. He prayed it wasn’t just sheer disgust at the idea of a relationship with him. He also feared what had happened to her in their time apart that could have made her so scared of maybe not him, but men in general. All he knew was that if someone had hurt her, they were dead. No questions asked, no explanations needed, they would die at his hand and he would enjoy it. 

He wanted to ask her if she was ok - really ok - and what she needed from him, but he figured it was too soon. She was right, they didn’t really know each other anymore. So that was where he would start. An honest, full apology for his actions last night, and then maybe she would be willing to spend some time with him. He wanted nothing more than to just talk to her, and he was fearful that he had already fucked up. She wasn’t his wife, she was the Lady of a castle, and he needed to show her the respect she deserved. He could do that, would do almost anything that would make her happy, and he was adamant on proving that. 

He was just about to turn back and return to the castle to seek her out when he found himself by the water’s edge, eyes stuck on the back of a figure in front of him. Bran Stark, no longer a boy but a man, sat in his chair in front of the Weirwood Tree in absolute silence. He looked like a Priest before an effigy, and Jaime was struck deeply with the feeling that he was trespassing. He didn’t belong in these woods, and certainly not before this tree or man.

The man that was once a boy who climbed as high as the sky before he was thrown from a tower by a callous fool. 

Jaime ought to throw himself to his knees and grovel, kiss the ground beneath him and beg for forgiveness. He ought to hand him his own sword, bare his neck, and whisper one final prayer to the ones he was leaving behind.

He did none of these things.

He stood and stared as his thoughts stumbled over themselves to find the right thing to say. Whatever he settled on died in his throat as Bran turned his chair to gaze upon him with blank eyes, no hint of emotion anywhere on his face. Jaime’s feet moved of his own accord, boots crunching deafeningly through the snow till they were several feet apart. 

“I’m sorry.” It was a weak start, but it was honest.

Bran didn’t reply, his expression unchanging, and so Jaime continued. 

“I regret what I did to you, but I’m not that same person, not anymore. I truly am sorry.”

“There’s no point in remorse now,” Bran replied, in his steady, mystical voice. “You did what you thought was necessary to protect your family.”

Jaime swallowed uncomfortably, a bitter laugh in his chest as he thought of the ‘family’ he had been protecting. “But-”

“It was meant to happen, you could not have prevented it. I had to be broken to become what I am now. You were an instrument of fate, not its decider.”

Jaime blinked slowly, utterly confused. On their way to Winterfell, Brienne had explained as best she could the enigma that was Bran Stark - or the Three Eyed Raven, as supposedly he was no longer Bran. However, it was one thing to hear about, and another entirely to witness. 

“Still,” he protested, “I want you to know that I mean you or your family no harm. I’m here to fight by your side, but I understand if you wish to tell them instead and let me face the punishment I deserve.”

Bran was silent for a moment, staring into the bark face rather than Jaime’s pinched one. 

“You love my sister. I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.” He turned to face Jaime again, as if to gauge his reaction. “She already knows it was you who pushed me from the tower.”

Jaime blanched, bile in his throat. Gods, she must hate him. “How?” he croaked, shame sizzling through his veins. 

“Baelish.”

Of course, the worm had always had such a fascination with Sansa that made Jaime want to smash his head into a wall, it was no surprise that he would try to poison Sansa against him. Then again, he had only told her a truth Jaime had been too ashamed to tell her himself. 

“She doesn’t hate you.” Jaime raised his head, pulled from his downward spiral by the quiet voice. “She understood why you did it in the end.”

That was even more confusing to Jaime. She should hate him, want him dead for hurting her family then not even telling her. He didn’t deserve her.

“My sister is not safe here.”

Jaime’s breath caught in his chest, eyes wide and hand immediately clutching his sword as he stepped closer to Bran. 

“Here? In Winterfell?” Jaime spluttered, panic in his chest. “Then she has to go, I have to take her away from here.”

“Do you really think she would leave? She won’t. You need to protect her, Ser Jaime.”

“From what?”

Bran turned his chair back to the tree, the woods deafening in their silence. 

“From the Queen that wants her dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, right? 
> 
> First, thank you to everyone who's read this story, and especially those who commented or liked as it gave me the kick up the butt I needed to actually write this chapter. I finally have a plan for this story that I like and so hopefully I'll write more often! (also if there's a mistake, let me know, it's too easy to miss things)
> 
> Secondly, I know that technically Jaime had his hand cut off before when he and Sansa would have been married, but I wrote the scene before I checked the timeline and decided, fuck it, why does it matter?
> 
> Thirdly, Jaime's view of Sansa can essentially be summed up by the song Church by Fall Out Boy, because she deserves to be cherished.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> plotting, sword fights, and someone makes a major move

**Sansa **

  
  


He was avoiding her, she was sure of it. 

The castle was in preparation for war, and as Lady of Winterfell, she was extremely busy. It was meeting after meeting with everyone from the Stable Master to Gendry, and because of this she had traversed the entire castle - and yet Jaime was nowhere to be found. No one had seen or heard from him since early that morning when he had retrieved his horse from the stable and disappeared with Ser Daven. The Lannister general had returned some hours ago, but her ex-husband had not. 

She didn’t have the time to search him out though, and so with an order to Jaime’s steward that she be alerted the moment he reappeared, she returned to her solar to finish replying to the mountain of raven scrolls that had appeared in the last few days. Unsurprisingly, she was finding it hard to concentrate as her mind still ran in circles about the previous day. She had to keep shaking her head and scolding herself with the reminder that she had decided the night before that she wasn’t going to worry about her relationship with Jaime until after they had faced the Night King. 

They would win the war, and then they could bask in each other’s company as much as she dared. To get to that point, however, she had to ensure they won the war. To do that, she needed to focus on these scrolls that called the last of her bannerman to Winterfell to fight. Reinvigorated, her elegant italics became a little more sloppy as she hurried to complete her seemingly endless list of tasks.

When a knock on the door roused her from the papers, she was surprised to note that, judging by the change of light, she had been wrapped up in her work for hours. Dropping the pen, she shook the cramp from her aching fingers as she distractedly opened the door to be met with Jaime, a plate of tarts, and a mildly sorrowful half-smile. Sansa swallowed thickly around a sudden lump in her throat, hands pausing in their motions as her eyes darted between the plate and his face and his riding cloak still damp with snow. 

Wordlessly, she stepped away from the door and went to throw another log on the fire, watching it crackle and spark as the door closed quietly behind her. 

“I’m scared to ask why you’ve come here,” she mused slowly, crossing her arms across her chest to keep from fidgeting as she sat in the armchair and looked expectantly at him. 

“Scared? What do you mean?” Jaime replied, concern ringing through his tone as he ignored her invitation of a seat and instead stood awkwardly just inside the door. 

“The tarts,” she explained, gesturing at the plate. “They’re either an apology or a bribe.”

“Oh,” he exclaimed in understanding, huffing under his breath in stilted amusement as he glanced down at the plate. “I wish I could say you were wrong, but I guess you know me too well.”

They shared a warm look, but Sansa grew increasingly worried at how strangely Jaime was acting. Was it about yesterday? Was he really this angry about her rejecting his move on her? Her heart fluttered concerningly, and she uncrossed her arms to grip her thighs under the folds of her dress and tried to calm down. Jaime was too distracted to notice as he finally sat in the chair opposite her, placing the plate on the table between them and then ruffling a hand through his hair in the way he always did when he was trying to figure out the best way to say something. 

“I know that-” 

“Where have you-”

They both stopped abruptly, words faltering in the air as their lips quirked into tiny smiles. 

“Sorry, you go first.”

Sansa inhaled deeply through her nose, then shook her head determindley. “No, you clearly have something to say so please, just say it.”

Jaime nodded, almost reluctantly, flesh hand wringing his golden one as his eyes dropped from hers to the floor. 

“I know that you know what I did.” He ventured, eyes flicking up to meet hers with a heavy look. “Bran told me that you know I pushed him from the tower.”

Sansa’s breath disappeared from her lungs in an instant in shock at Jaime’s statement. Whatever she had been expecting him to say, it was most certainly not that. When she didn’t say anything, he took that as a cue to continue, leaning forward in his chair so that there was only a couple of feet between them.

“He said that Baelish was the one to tell you, and I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but I need to explain. There is no justification for what I did, it was cruel and heartless and I didn’t even care enough to think of what it would do to Bran or to your family.” He paused, licking his lips in thought before he went on in a quieter, steadier tone. “I thought I was protecting my family. I could never have known that it would end up hurting the only person in the world I actually give a shit about.”

Sansa could feel herself welling up as heat crawled up her neck, a flurry of emotions threatening to choke her. Even Jaime’s voice sounded thick when he spoke again after a brief pause. 

“If I could take it back, I would. I wish I could. All I can do is say that I am so, so sorry, and I understand if you hate my guts and want me dead. After we win the war, I will face whatever punishment you see fit. If you wish to have me executed, let it be. If you wish to never see my face again, I will exile myself beyond the wall in penance for hurting you.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock as she sputtered. Jaime was not a liar, never had been, but it was still a jolt to her heart to see the pure sincerity written across his features as his eyes never wavered from hers. 

“Sansa, please say something.”

She chewed her lip, watching her fingers smooth over the fabric of her skirts soothingly.

“When Baelish first told me, I was furious. I hated you, Jaime,” she whispered, gazes clashing as he nodded, hurt but unsurprised. “Then I thought about it more and more and I realised why you did what you did. Bran insists that it had to happen, that it was inevitable, so I cannot really blame you for following your path. I don’t hold it against you, Jaime, but I appreciate your apology.”

The exhale from Jaime was a violent shudder, and Sansa honestly thought he was close to tears. The room was quiet as they both came to terms with what had been laid out before them, and in a way Sansa felt lighter. They both had so many secrets they kept close to their chests so putting one out in the open was a relief, even if it was difficult. There was just one last thing she needed to address.

“It’s what you tried to tell me when we were married, isn’t it? That night after I told you I loved you for the first time. You said you had to tell me something that would make me take those words back, and I refused to listen to you.”

Jaime nodded, frowning deeply. “I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer, not when I realised how much I actually cared for you.” He sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes with his good eyes. “I should have told you whether you wanted to hear it or not.”

Sansa smirked lightly. “You listened to me and respected my wishes. I cannot be mad at you for that.” 

Hesitantly, she reached across the gap between them to rest her hand on his forearm and squeeze lightly. “I forgive you, Jaime.”

The look in his eyes took her breath away, the pain clearing to be replaced by wonder. She was sure their faces were closer than they were a second ago, his breath on her cheek as they stared silently at one another. 

“Sansa, I-”

She stared at Jaime expectantly, waiting for him to continue his thought in that sincere tone she knew meant something big. He hesitated too long though, and a rap at the door had him pulling his hand from hers, leaping from his chair to wrench the door open in a fluster. Sansa bit back her amused smirk at his skittish behaviour, standing and smoothing her dress as her expression melted back into the face of the Lady of Winterfell as a Northern knight turned suspicious eyes from Jaime to Sansa. 

“My Lady, Ser Royce requests your counsel in the library.”

“Thank you, Ser Bren, I will be right there.”

He bowed his head to her, cast a dirty look at Jaime, and left the room without another word. Jaime rolled his eyes, smirking. “You know, anyone would think that people here aren’t too fond of me.”

Sansa snorted, throwing him a playful glare as she scooped up a few letters from her desk and led the way from her chambers, turning to Jaime once he’d shut the door behind them. 

“I’m glad we had this talk, Jaime. I will see you at the war counsel.”

With one last half-smile, she turned and strode down the hallway, the feel of Jaime’s gaze heavy on her back and it wasn’t until she turned a corner that she managed to relax her shoulders and release a breath. 

“Come on, Sansa,” she muttered under her breath, ready for the distraction that a meeting with Ser Royce would offer. It wouldn’t do to dwell once again on Jaime Lannister.

xxxx

  
  


“Keep them open for as long as you can. There are still people coming in from the countryside,” Sansa replied to Royce, looking up at the appearance of quiet footsteps. To say she was surprised to see Daenerys willingly seek her out was an understatement, but she didn’t let that show on her face as she smoothly stood, Royce mirroring her movements by her side. 

Neither of them uttered a greeting, but Daenerys’ fake-looking smile did not dissipate as she glanced from Sansa to Royce. 

“I was hoping to speak to Lady Sansa alone,” she announced, barely veiling the order behind half-pleasantries. 

Instead of jumping to leave like her own men would have done, Royce turned to Sansa who quickly nodded his dismissal. The man didn’t even glance at Daenerys as he left, and Sansa had to hide a smile at the flicker of irritation that twitched in the Queen’s face. The silver woman then turned back to face her as they sat at the table, tension thick in the air. 

“I didn’t think you’d be so quick to come to Ser Jaime’s defence,” she began in a light tone, but Sansa could hear the sharp bite that lay beneath the surface. “After all, you were forced to marry and lay with him, and we both know what happened to the last man that shared those qualities.”

Rage and fear spiked in Sansa’s stomach, and the room suddenly felt much too hot. She didn’t know that Daenerys knew anything about her and Ramsay, let alone what he had done to her. Her heart sank a little at the realisation that Jon had apparently taken it upon himself to spill her life story to anyone that would listen, and she folded her hands in her lap as she kept her expression blank.

“Jaime and Ramsay couldn’t be more different, there is no comparison.” 

Her tone was sharp, and Daenerys tilted her head to stare at Sansa as if she were trying to catch her in a lie. 

“It’s rare to meet someone who trusts a Lannister,” she remarked, leaning back in her chair with that smug twisted smile still glued to her face. 

“You do,” Sansa parried, tone even and eyes defiant. 

“Well, Tyrion has proved his loyalty. He has that ruthless Lannister streak in him, but he’s ultimately a good, smart man.” She paused in thought, looking into the distance. “He was an idiot to trust in his sister though.”

Sansa couldn’t help but snort. “So where you.”

Daenerys's eyes flashed with anger as they turned back to her, teeth bared. 

“Yes, I trusted the word of a Lannister, and look what happened. Now, you expect me to trust the words of another.”

Heat was rising in Sansa as she practically growled out, “You don’t have to trust him. There are thousands of people in this castle watching his every move, if he really is the enemy then he won’t be able to do anything about it. You just have to refrain from killing him.”

There was a beat of silence as the Targaryen retracted slightly, jaw stiff. 

“We’re alike, you and I.” 

Sansa blanched at her words, desperate to protest as she hoped that there was no truth in that statement. 

Oblivious to Sansa’s blatant disgust, Daenerys continued in a slightly wistful voice, a smile on her face. “We’re strong women who have built themselves up to lead, taking down those who hurt them along the way. We have both lost family, yet we are still here fighting.”

The redhead gritted her teeth, reluctant to agree. 

“And we both love your brother.”

Sansa didn’t believe that Daenerys was capable of love, but she played along. 

“Yes, and he loves you too,” she acknowledged, a sliver of steel in her tone that didn’t go unnoticed.

Daenerys cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t approve?”

Sansa rolled her words around in her mouth before she spoke them, realising she had to be careful to tread the line of insolence without jumping over into terrain that would get her roasted alive by dragon fire. “Men do stupid things for women. They're easily manipulated.”

“You think I wish to manipulate him?”

“I think you have very different visions of the future, and I think you will stop at nothing to have your vision come to fruition,” Sansa countered, watching the agitation take over Daenerys’ expression in one quick motion. 

“I came North to fight this war  _ for him _ , I deviated from my path to  _ help him. _ ” She barked, hands gripping the wooden chair arms until they creaked. 

“And the North thanks you for your help,” Sansa relented begrudgingly, “but this is a war for humanity, not just the North. If you refused to come and fight and instead focused on the Throne, you would be left with nothing to rule over but a devastated wasteland.”

Daenerys appeared to mull her words over, the air heavy with silence as they stared one another down. 

“What is it you want?” Daenerys challenged eventually. “You want to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and so plan to kill me, is that it?”

Sansa laughed, short and sharp, at the outrageousness of the idea. There was nothing she wanted less. 

“I have no interest in the Iron Throne. I have no interest in ever returning to the South or even passing The Neck ever again.”

“Then what do you want?” Daenerys demanded, perplexed by the idea that someone wouldn’t want to be ruler. 

“Independence for the North,” Sansa admitted, voice unwavering as she watched closely to gauge Daenerys’ reaction. “When we win the war against the Dead, you can go and fight Cersei and take the Iron Throne for yourself, and once you’re sat on that ugly thing you declare the North an independent state and leave us be.”

The shock was clear on Daenerys’ face, as was the indignation, but she had no chance to voice her opinions as the door opened and Maester Wolkan popped his head through the gap. 

“Sorry to interrupt, My Lady, Your Grace, but there is a new arrival in the Hall waiting to be received.”

The two stood in unison, Daenerys practically shoving her way past Sansa to take the lead which only served to entertain Sansa with the ridiculousness of her immaturity. Any amusement flooded from Sansa’s brain when she entered the hall to see Theon Greyjoy standing in the centre of the room, dirty and unkempt, but more human than she’d seen him in years. His eyes immediately snapped to hers, then darted over her body, checking for injuries in the way that Jon and Jaime also did.

With reluctance, he turned to Daenerys and stepped forwards with a duck of his head. “My Queen.”

“Where is your sister?” she questioned brusquely. 

“Sailing to the Iron Islands. She only controls a few ships now, so she has gone to plan a siege against our uncle to reclaim the fleet.”

The Dragon Queen nodded, eyes narrowed. “And why aren’t you with her?”

Instead of replying, Theon turned to Sansa to address her directly, stepping past a taken-aback Daenerys to kneel before Sansa. 

“I’m here to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa. This is my home, and you are my family. I would be honoured to fight by your side, if you’ll allow me.”

Tears gathered in the corner of her eyes, a lump appearing in her throat as she smiled, a little broken, but genuine. She didn’t answer, just stepped forward to grasp his hand and tug him to his feet, only to throw her arms around him in a tight hug. Her face pressed into his shoulder, his hands clutching her back, and she couldn’t see the dirty look of fury that Daenerys was aiming at them. Even if she had, she wouldn’t care. Theon was home. Everyone left in the world that she cared about was within these walls and it brought joy to her heart, even if the reason for the reunion was a horrible one. 

Right now, the war could wait, pushed to the back of her mind as she reveled in the feeling of having Theon back in her arms once more. 

  
  
  


**Jaime**

  
  


Jaime had never once spoken to Arya Stark, and yet he had heard so many stories that he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the young woman in front of him. A Braavos assassin, a faceless man. That was what Brienne and Tyrion had told him, and at first he had scoffed in disbelief. Then he had seen her, and one glance at her guarded face and strict posture and graceful movements and he knew they weren’t lying.

This woman didn’t match the image of Arya that Jaime had built in his head from Sansa’s stories of a girl who refused to wear dresses and wrestled in the dirt with their brothers. He had pictured someone full of mischief and light, but this Arya was nothing of the sort. She was a weapon, and a fierce one at that. 

Watching her face off against Brienne was a sight to behold, and had attracted a small crowd as the two experienced fighters clashed swords. They were evenly matched, but their fighting styles were polar opposites, which made for a good show. Stood between Tyrion and Podrick, he watched their movements closely, trying to determine who had the upper hand, but it seemed to change with every second. 

Eventually, Brienne feigned a slice to Arya’s throat just as Arya held a dagger up to her heart, and the two called it a draw. The crowd dispersed, and the two breathless women approached them, seemingly pleased with their brutal training session. 

Jaime adopted his usual expression, hiding his surprised awe behind a cocky smirk. 

“Not bad, wench,” he praised Brienne, tone mocking in their familiar banter before he turned to Arya. “And you weren’t awful either, for a child.”

While Brienne glared at him in her customary unimpressed way, Arya scowled darkly, fingers clenching around the hilt of her sword. Then the anger was gone, replaced with arrogant amusement that reminded him alarmingly of himself.

“A child who could kick your arse to the dirt,” she smirked, provocation in her eyes. 

Behind him, Tyrion clapped once and laughed. “Well, brother, you've never been one to turn down a challenge.”

Jaime shot him a stern look, but Brienne jabbed her elbow into his ribs, smirking like the cat that got the cream. 

“Yes, Ser Jaime, you and Arya both need to fit in some more practice before the battle, so why not go ahead now while you’re both here.”

He bit his tongue, glancing between the group who continued to goad him on until he finally relented. “Alright, alright! We’ll spar, but first I need to apologise.”

Arya’s brow furrowed, head tilted to the side. “For what?”

Pivoting on his left foot, he locked his right ankle around her knee and pulled sharply, sending her down onto one knee where he quickly pointed his sword at the back of her neck. 

“For beating your arse into the dirt.”

xxx

  
  


One spar turned into two, and two turned into a betting game among Tyrion, Podrick and Ser Daven, Brienne watching on in exasperated amusement. Jaime and Arya were as closely matched as either of them were with Brienne, to no one's surprise, but they also both played dirty which led to many ‘critical hits’. By the time dusk began to fall, they were both sore and panting, but sporting matching grins of exhilaration as cheers and groans sounded throughout the spectators when Arya held the point of Needle up to Jaime’s eye. 

He raised his hands in submission, and decided it was an overall draw. The sheathed their swords as Brienne called out that it was time for the war counsel, and he found himself trailing behind the group with Arya at his side.

“You’re better than I expected, you know,” Arya declared, voice even despite her still-heaving chest and red cheeks. “I figured once you lost your hand you’d be useless.”

The brutal honesty in her statement had Jaime spluttering a laugh, watching her out the corner of his eye. “I work with what I have,” he explained vaguely, frowning as Podrick handed Tyrion a handful of coins - which meant Tyrion bet against him in that final fight, the fucker. 

“I’d heard you were a good fighter, but I have to admit I wasn’t expecting that,” he offered in return, respect in his tone as they trudged down endless corridors. 

“It’s good to be underestimated, it makes it easier to beat people because they get cocky. Or at least, that’s what Sansa says. I want people to know what I’m capable of. I want them to fear me.”

Her emotionless words sent a chill through his spine, but he couldn’t help but be more intrigued than fearful. One day, he wanted to hear her story, learn about the Faceless Men and their ways. He wanted to ask her what instance she was thinking of right now that made such a bone-chilling smile grace her lips. 

“She’s right,” he said instead, “as she usually is.”

Arya hummed softly. “She is, isn’t she?” murmured Arya, almost to herself as she looked to be deep in thought. 

Jaime cocked a brow, slowing his stride to match hers as she purposefully let the distance between them and the rest of their group lengthen, their loud voices fading around a corner. 

“What do you think of Daenerys?”

The question caught Jaime off guard completely, and he quickly glanced around in search of anyone who could be listening - Varys was in the castle after all, and it was safe to assume his little birds were everywhere. He considered lying, giving some non-committal mumble to brush off the question, because although he assumed Arya wasn’t any more of a fan of the dragon queen than he was, he wasn’t sure. Yet, she was Sansa’s sister, and he figured that she wouldn’t willingly get him in trouble - hopefully.

“I think she’s delusional. She has the makings of a tyrant, whether she believes it or not. Her go-to response is murder and she can’t handle anyone telling her what to do. That makes for a poor Queen.”

Arya was silent, considering his words.

“Also, she’s a cunt.”

It was Arya’s turn to snort a laugh at his careless words, the grin on her face assuring him he was in the clear. But then her face sobered, her eyes fixing on the door at the end of the corridor as she stopped at the corner. 

“I wanted to like her, you know? I guess I was caught up in the fantasy of a powerful woman ruling from the throne for once - or at least one that wasn’t Cersei. I wanted to believe in her because I believe in Jon. I kept telling myself that if he was willing to back her to this extent, then she had to be decent.” She rolled her shoulders, the casual motion in stark contrast to the severity of her words. “But I was wrong. She’s a bitch, and I will not bow to her.”

He stared at her blank face for a second, then turned away to also stare at the door that Daenerys was currently standing behind. 

“You don’t need a powerful woman to look up to, Arya, you already are one. You and your sister have outlasted almost everyone that’s opposed you - and proved a lot of other people wrong. Myself included.”

She was surprised by his words, and the open expression on her face made him realise how carefully blank her face had been this entire time without him even realising. She watched him with a thoughtful gaze, arms crossed and her fingers tapping her elbow before she half-smiled.

“Sansa told me you were nice. I didn’t believe her.”

Before he could make a joke about how much of an absolute gentleman he was, Arya reached out to clap him on the shoulder and pull him towards her. 

“That’s another thing. Now that you’re here, and Jon and Bran are useless, I’ll be the one to deal out the threats. Hurt Sansa, and I’ll cut off your balls and force feed them to you in the courtyard for everyone to see. Got it?”

She didn’t wait for a reply, just pivoted on the spot and strode gracefully over to the door, knocking once before pulling it open to stand and hold it, looking at him expectantly. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or scared, so he settled on a bit of both.    
  


**Sansa **

  
  


The right word to describe the war council would be disaster. Nothing at all had come of the hours spent fighting in that chamber, people yelling over each other and going back and forth as they argued over pointless things. Daenerys refused to listen to anyone but Grey Worm, Jorah and Jon - and even then, only sometimes. But Jaime and Ser Daven knew war, they were commanders and had good ideas about how to both attack the army and protect the castle, but the bloody Dragon Queen refused to listen. Instead, they went round and round in circles and all Sansa had to show from it was a headache. 

“You’ll fall and crack your head open if you keep doing that,” she chastised distractedly, one hand rubbing her temple and the other clutching the record of their food stores. The legs of the wooden desk chair slammed back onto the stone floor as Arya heeded her warning, however reluctantly. Her younger sister couldn’t sit still, fiddling with anything within reach on Sansa’s desk.

“Ok, what is it that’s bothering you?” she questioned, putting down the records and standing from her seat by the fire to lean on the bureau opposite her desk, arms crossed and gaze stern.

Arya sighed, running a ribbon through her fingers as she stared unseeingly at the motion. “Why does he love her?”

Sansa exhaled through her nose, leaning back more heavily onto the surface as her fingers twitched involuntarily. “You mean Jon and Daenerys?”

Arya nodded, and Sansa raised her eyes to the ceiling in thought.

“I don’t know, but I think maybe she makes him feel less lonely.” 

Arya was looking at her blankly, so Sansa sighed and tried to clarify. “He’s never thought of himself as a Stark, not really,” she paused for a half second and Arya opened her mouth interject, so Sansa raised her hand. “Yes, I know, he is a Stark no matter what he says, but it doesn’t matter how many times we tell him that, he still refuses to believe it. Daenerys doesn’t have a family either, so I can see why they found comfort in each other.”

Arya frowned at her words. “But she’s a horrible person.”

It seemed so clear to Arya, and Sansa was suddenly struck with the reminder of how young Arya was. 

“You’d be surprised where people end up finding love,” Sansa whispered, allowing herself a second of wistfulness before hardening back to steel. Arya’s gaze flicked to hers at that, about to no doubt prod at the flicker of a romantic sentiment when a knock at the door had them both looking up.

Welcoming the distraction, Sansa hurried to open the door, only mildly surprised to find Jaime standing there. She ushered him in quickly, closing the door firmly behind her as she led him through her solar and into her bed chambers - further from the door and the servants passage meant for more privacy.

Arya grinned slyly when she caught sight of him, once more swinging back on two legs of the chair. “Speak his name, and he shall appear.”

Jaime paused, glancing between the sisters. “What?”

“We were talking about Daenerys,” Sansa cut in sharply before Arya could open her mouth, shooting a deadly look at her sister as she resumed her place leaning on the bureau. 

“All good things, I’m sure,” he smirked, crossing his arms and ankles as he leant casually against the windowsill mere paces from her. 

“Of course! Think of all the great things she’s done!” Arya exclaimed, raising her hand to count on her fingers as she began her list. “Alienated Jon, murdered Sam’s family, practically took over Winterfell, acted like a spoiled brat anytime anyone opposed her...what am I missing? Oh yeah, she wants us all dead.”

It was funny, but it was also worrying. She really couldn’t be trusted in a position of power, not with such a volatile mind. 

“She sought me out earlier,” Sansa offered, to the surprise of Jaime and Arya. “I think she was trying to figure out my angle, asking about my past and my plans for the future. You should have seen her face when I said that I wanted independence for the North.”

Jaime frowned, worry set deep in the lines of his forehead as he shifted imperceptibly closer. 

“She definitely sees you as a threat. She knows you hold more influence in the North than Jon does these days, and you’ve made it clear you won’t sit down quietly and do as she tells you.”

Anger flared in Sansa and she turned blazing eyes to him, hair like wildfire whipping round her shoulders. 

“I refuse to treat her like my ruler just because Jon wants me to,” she growled, teeth bared and fingers clenched. 

“I know, I didn’t mean it like that,” Jaime placated, good hand reaching to brush against her knuckles, her fist instantly relaxing. “I’m proud of the way you stand up to her, and I expect nothing less from you.”

Her anger retreated, lost in the soothing repetition of Jaime’s fingers, when a huff of laugh snapped them both out of their staring to turn to Arya, who Sansa had absolutely not forgotten was in the room. 

“You really are an old married couple,” she jested good-naturedly, smirk hiding a more sincere smile. 

“Anyway,” Jaime coughed, hand stuffed in his pocket to refrain from touching her again. “We know she cannot be trusted, but we can’t do anything now. If we oppose her any further, she’ll simply kill us. We have to find a way to properly take her down, or at least a way to bargain with her.”

“How likely is it that we manage to convince Jon to turn on her?”

Jaime and Sansa grimaced in unison and Arya’s shoulders slumped, muttering under her breath. “Yeah, thought as much.”

“The most important thing is she doesn’t catch wind of any plots or talks that oppose her. Varys will have spies everywhere, all it takes is saying the wrong thing to the wrong person or in the wrong place and we’ll be executed before either of our brother’s can do anything about it,” Jaime advised, looking out the window at the courtyard below where people were completing the last chores of the evening.

“For now, we wait,” confirmed Sansa, eyes fixed on the fire. “We’ll let her make the next move.”   
  


**Jaime**

Turned out, they didn’t have to wait long for that next move.

In fact, when Jaime was pulled violently from his sleep by a slamming against his door, his first thought was that Sansa had jinxed it and Daenerys had sent someone to off him in his sleep. But the door wasn’t forced open, and the incessant knocking was quickly joined by a voice.

“Ser Jaime, you have to come now! Quickly, it’s Lady Sansa!”

Ser Daven’s words had him on his feet in an instant, and he barely stopped to grab his sword before wrenching open the door and pushing past his friend to sprint towards her chambers.

“What happened?” He demanded over his shoulder, barely glancing at the other man as he climbed the stairs three at a time. 

“There was an assassination attempt.”

Jaime’s heart jumped, and his feet slipped beneath him as ice cold dread soaked his entire being. “Oh, Gods, Sansa.”

He ran even faster, and the second he rounded the corner to the corridor that held Sansa’s chambers, he was met with chaos. Guards were running in every direction, Brienne in the centre barking orders with ferocity he had never seen from her. Podrick sat on the floor, slumped against the wall as Maester Wolkan and his young apprentice worked to stench the blood pumping from his stomach. Jaime barely spared them a glance as he shoved his way into the room, freezing on the spot as his mouth dropped open.

The room was a mess, shattered glass and upturned furniture everywhere. A man clad in black lay at the foot of Sansa’s bed, a red patch staining the furs underneath him. His glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling, with a ripped out jugular and a knife still protruding from his shoulder. The direwolf was the next thing he noticed, hackles raised and mouth bloody as he stood and growled before the doorway. Behind the direwolf was what really made Jaime fearful, though. Arya stood between the bed and the wolf, staring down with barely-contained rage at her brother and Sam who were shoulder to shoulder, knelt on the floor. 

And between them was Sansa. 

“Jaime,” Arya suddenly spoke, and the two men looked up. 

Someone was speaking but he didn’t know who as he slowly walked towards the woman, the wolf moving aside on Jon’s orders. He dropped to his knees by her head, hands running over the space above her body as he bit his lip to stop from crying. 

“She has a deep slash to the stomach, and a shallow one to her throat,” Jon informed, his voice even more gravelly than usual with a sinister underbite. 

Jaime hadn’t even realised that Jon did indeed have a hand clamped against her pale throat, blindingly bright red blood trickling over his fingers, and the sight made him want to be sick. He couldn’t even bear to look lower to where Sam’s hands were hopefully working miracles to keep her alive. Instead, he focused on her face, brushing his hand over her cheeks and hair, careful not to disturb Jon’s hand. Her eyes were shut, sweat beading on her forehead as she released a quiet moan, slipping somewhere between conscious and not. Jon had a face like barely concealed thunder, dark eyes that blazed with righteous fury. 

“Who did this?”

It was the first thing Jaime had said since he entered the room, and his words sounded too loud in the thick air. Arya frowned, and he followed her gaze to look once more at the stranger laying dead on the sheets. 

“We don’t know yet,” she answered, slow and smooth. “But when we do find out...”

She trailed off, but it’s not like she needed to explain. Him and Jon were both thinking the same thing. A low growl from the direwolf had everyone turning to the entrance, and immediately Jaime’s stomach dropped. Brienne had returned to kneel at his side, but it was the other visitors that had caused such a reaction. 

Standing in the door, face blank, was Daenerys. She was dressed in light silk, Grey Worm at her side, and when she leant in to whisper something in his ear before turning to walk from the room with a smile on her lips, his hand was already on his sword.

“Stop, that won’t help right now!” Brienne admonished quietly, hand clenching his to stop him from drawing the blade. 

His vision was red, the blood pumping aggressively behind his eyes as his whole body tensed in a desperate need to slice open the throat of the Dragon Queen. 

“She’s dead,” he muttered almost soundlessly, words lost in Sansa’s hair as he buried his nose into the locks. “I promise you, wife, she’s dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got around to it, and I'm annoyed because I like the content of this chapter but I feel like I can write better than this - figured I'd just upload now and potentially edit later! It was also a lot of dialogue, so hopefully it didn't drag or anything.
> 
> I know I keep swerving in and out of canon but hopefully it's not too hard to follow. 
> 
> And things are happening! People are scheming and there's a lot of smirking going on, so you know that means big things are coming.
> 
> Thank you for your comments and kudos and favourites, they keep me motivated to continue! 
> 
> See you next time x


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Sansa Protection Squad is formed, and there’s lots of questions with no answers

**Sansa**

Consciousness comes back to her slowly, like a fog clearing as it rolls over the snowy hills. Her eyes don’t open, but the flickering of candlelight still shines through her eyelids, and a twitch of her toes is met with the comforting weight of heavy furs. 

There’s the steady crackling of fire, the rattle of the window in the strong winds, and a whine from her side. She’d recognise the noise anywhere, and sure enough she’s barely turned her head an inch when a cold snout is pressing to her cheek, her neck, in the same way a human would have fluttered their hands over her in some attempt to assure her wellbeing. 

It brings a whispered smile to her cracked lips, and she slowly peeks open one eye, then the other. It’s dark outside, the room bathed in a soft orange glow. Ghost whines again, then settles back down to lay once more at her side, head resting on her thigh. She breathes in deeply, and there’s a dull throb of pain in her stomach that has her biting her lip on a wince. 

She’s familiar with the cloudy mind and dulled senses that come from the consumption of milk of the poppy, and she’s eternally grateful in that moment for its existence. She tries to remember what happened, why she’s injured, but she can’t focus on anything but the tiredness consuming her. 

Eyelids heavy, she looks to the right and finds a figure slumped in the desk chair that’s been dragged to the side of her bed. His hair is messy, head propped up on a fist and elbow looking like it’s about to slip off the armrest - he’s certainly not awake. She blinks heavily, and with a significant amount of effort manages to drag her hand from under the covers, barely able to reach out and brush her fingertips against his knee. The soft touch is enough though, and he shakes awake with a start, mess of dark curls falling into his face as he blinks away the confusion and his eyes settle on her face. 

He doesn’t spare a beat, straining forward in his seat to hold her hand in one of his and use the other to brush sweaty hair back from her forehead. 

“Hey, you’re alright,” he whispers soothingly, voice rough from exhaustion. “Take it easy, you’re going to be fine.” He pauses in his placations, relieved smile dropping into a concerned grimace. “Do you remember what happened?”

She doesn’t have the energy to talk, not yet, so she gently shakes her head. He nods, unsurprised. 

“It’s ok, we have time for that later. Right now, you need to rest. Do you want anything? More milk of the poppy?” She shakes her head. “Water?” 

She nods minutely, eyes closed now as the effort of keeping them open becomes too much. The hand retreats from her forehead, but the rubbing of his thumb on the back of her hand is enough to lull her as she listens to the pouring of water and the thud of a jug on the table. 

His hand retreats to cup the back of her neck and lift her head to carefully pour the water past her lips, the coolness so refreshing that she sighs as the cup is taken away. He smiles affectionately, although she can’t see it, relief heavy in his bones. She’s going to be ok. He leans back in his chair, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling as he clasps her hand in his. 

“Sleep, Sansa, you’ll need your energy for the morning.”

  
  


xxx

The scene she wakes to the next morning is mostly the same. The comforting noise of the fire, the weight of a wolf, and the presence of a sibling. Only now it’s Arya in the chair, and there’s weak daylight streaming through the window. 

She feels better this time, the dull pain less all-consuming, her head clearer from having slept off the medicine. She wastes no time in turning to her sister, who is distractedly scribbling on some parchment. 

“What happened?” 

Her words are a croak, and there’s an uncomfortable pull at her throat that has her wincing. Her sister looks up, tossing the parchment onto the table - face down, Sansa notices - and drops her booted feet to the floor from where they had been kicked up on the side of the bed. 

She thinks for a moment in silence, probably wondering how much to say. Probably wondering whether or not to tell Sansa everything, going against the words of someone who thought it was too soon - Jon, probably, or maybe Jaime. But this is Arya, and so she shrugs her shoulders in resignation before answering bluntly. 

“There was an assassination attempt, and you were stabbed in the stomach. They tried to slit your throat, but the blade didn’t go deep. Jon thinks that’s when Ghost jumped in to tear the man off you.”

Sansa turns to the ceiling, trying and failing to conjure up the memories. An assasination attempt, on the Lady of the Castle, on the brink of war. _ I miss the days when Winterfell was safe, _she thinks. Then she blinks, and wonders if it was ever really safe, or if she had just been naive enough to believe it was. 

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“Well, the assassin’s missing a pretty big chunk of his throat,” Arya smirks wickedly, but sobers at the sharp, tired look from her sister. “A guard and and a squire, both dead before they had a chance to attract attention. Podrick took a hit, but he’ll be fine. They’re still trying to figure out how he managed to get into your rooms without alerting anyone else.”

Running a hand over Ghost’s soft fur in a comforting motion, Sansa holds her sister’s gaze with eyes that give away nothing.

“Do we know who sent him?”

Arya hesitates, face serious. “Depends on who you ask. Jaime thinks it was Daenerys, Daenerys says it must be Cersei, and Jon’s suspicious of everyone from the Wall to Dorne.”

Sansa hums in thought, a sort of delirious amusement taking her over at the fact that the two most powerful people in the world want her dead. 

“What do you think?” She wonders, sensing something in the strong set of her sister’s jaw. 

The younger girl slouches in the chair, foot tapping the floor as she glances at her discarded parchment. “I agree with Jaime. It’s no secret Daenerys wants you gone, but she can’t do anything outright, not here. An assassination attempt makes sense.” Her quick words reveal that she’s evidently given it a lot of thought, and she barrels on as if eager to hear Sansa’s opinion on her theory. “If the assassin was hiding among her armies, he would have had easy access to the castle as none of the Northerners would have realised he was an outsider. Jon knows it too, he just doesn’t want to consider the possibility.”

Humming softly, Sansa’s blue eyes turn to the ceiling in thought. “It would be a good play, you’re right. It isn’t really her style though, is it?” She questions, something not sitting right. “If she wanted me dead, there would be easier ways to do it. Besides, she’s so insistent that she’s Queen that I doubt even Jon would be able to talk her down if she really wanted me dead, she would just have me pulled from my bed and executed in the courtyard and order anyone who protested to die alongside me.”

Arya was staring at her thoughtfully, brows furrowed as she considered the truth of the blase statement, but Sansa was done with the conversation for now. 

“Will you help me dress? I cannot lay around here all day when the war could start at any time,” she huffed, rubbing gently at her throat through the dressings at the uncomfortable pull when she spoke. 

“That’s the other thing,” Arya ventures, one hand rubbing the other in an open display of nerves that was uncommon enough to take Sansa aback. “Tormund’s back, with what’s left of the Night’s Watch. Last Hearth has fallen, the Umbers are dead, and the Night King and his army will be here by dawn tomorrow.” 

Sansa’s heart dropped. Less than twenty-four hours until the war began. Brimming with fierce determination, she bites her lip and slowly stands, doing her best to ignore the pain. Arya was by her side in an instant, a hand on her elbow to help steady her on her feet. 

“Do we have a plan?”

Arya shook her head, mirroring Sansa’s slow steps as she led them to the small dressing room, and it was only then when Sansa realised she was in Arya’s room, not her own. 

“We only heard the news early this morning, but Jon’s called for a war counsel after breakfast.”

“Then we better hurry, or we will be late,” Sansa announced, the hint of an order under her even tone that made Arya smirk. 

“Of course, M’Lady,” she mocked with a grin, leaving Sansa to slowly remove her nightdress as Arya went to summon her handmaiden. 

  
  
  


**Jaime**

  
  


His lungs were burning from exertion, muscles aching like never before, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse face first into the snow. He couldn’t remember the last time he had pushed himself in a training session like this, but he was sure it hadn’t hurt this much in a very long time - he was definitely getting old.

But the pain was a welcome distraction, the repetitive motions of training the only thing keeping him from ripping Daenerys’ smug, self-righteous head from her neck with his bare hand. The anger that had him smashing his water jug after finally being banished from Sansa’s bedside in the early hours of the morning had quietened to a persistent crackle in his taut muscles, thrumming just beneath the surface. 

He had been short with everyone he’d come across, and the only one who could handle him in this state was Brienne. She had pulled him from his room after a young handmaiden had all but ran from his foul mood, and they had been clashing swords ever since. They had begun in silence, but eventually talk turned to the upcoming battle, neither bringing up Sansa or the thwarted assassination. 

To Brienne’s surprise, he had even agreed to come see Podrick with her after their session, for he knew he couldn’t return alone to his room without reverting back to his sullen anger. Instead, he collapsed heavily in the chair in the corner of the room as Brienne sat by Podrick’s side and asked him how he was. The boy was pale, but seemed to be in good spirits, and Jaime vaguely recalled the Maester saying that he had been lucky, the sword had missed all his organs and simply given him a flesh wound that looked worse than it was. 

Whoever this assassin was, he had done a shit job. 

“Jaime!”

Wide eyes shot up from the floor to meet an impatient Brienne, who had clearly said his name several times before it had finally registered. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, raising an eyebrow in question.

Brienne huffed and raised her eyes to the heavens briefly. “Podrick said Sam came to see him not long ago, he said Sansa is awake and out of bed, which means she’s recovering better than expected. It also means that you can stop fretting like a lovesick greenboy and simply go see her.”

Jaime shot her a glare, ignoring the lump in his throat at the fact that Sansa was ok - or at least was insisting she was. Thank the gods, he thought. The bitterness and the anger was still there, though, and it quickly shadowed his mood.

“Yes, and the guilty person is still walking around like they have nothing to hide and no repercussions to fear,” he ground out through a clenched jaw, glowering at a crack in the wall. 

With a quick glance at the shut door, Brienne leaned towards him to quietly hiss. “Stop making such brash accusations, there’s no evidence to suggest it was Daenerys, and you’ll get yourself killed if you carry on like you are.”

“She did it!” Jaime protested hotly, but he begrudgingly moved his chair closer to the bed so that he could talk in a quieter voice. “She hates Sansa, of course it was her.”

“Jaime, lots of people hate Lady Sansa,” Brienne argued calmly, raising a hand when Jaime went to jump in in defence. “You know it’s true. There are plenty of people who want her dead. Daenerys, Cersei, even loyalists to the Boltons and the Freys. The point is you need to be careful with what you’re saying or you’ll be the next to face an assassin.”

“What if Ser Jaime’s right and it was Daenerys,” Podrick piped up from where he had been quietly watching their exchange. “What do we do now? How do we protect Lady Sansa in a war?” 

The trio were quiet, pondering the impossible question. 

“We know who we can trust implicitly with her safety, so we make sure one of us is always with her,” Brienne decided, looking between the men. 

Jaime nodded slowly, thinking it over. “Us three, Arya, Ser Royce...the Tully boy and Lord Bran can be trusted to look out for her, but I doubt either would be able to protect her if it came down to a fight.”

“What about Jon?” questioned Podrick suddenly, and Jaime rolled his eyes with a short laugh of distaste.

“He’d die to protect his family,” Brienne argued quickly, disapproving gaze on Jaime. 

“He swore to the Dragon Queen, he has mixed loyalties and I won’t risk it,” Jaime countered, something in the monotony of his tone or the harsh darkness of his eyes making Brienne bite her tongue on whatever she had been about to say. 

“Ok, what about Greyjoy?” she asked instead. 

Jaime couldn’t help but snort. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t he take Winterfell for himself and pretend that he had killed the Stark boys? Why would we trust him?”

“He saved Sansa’s life,” Brienne reasoned quietly. “He got her out of the castle and away from Ramsay, and he was ready to sacrifice himself to save her. He came back now to swear to her, not Daenerys.”

Jaime blinked, stunned. He hadn’t realised Theon had played a part in her escape, had only heard that the two had been in Ramsay’s clutches at the same time. He was sobered with the realisation that he really knew next to nothing about Sansa’s life in the years since King’s Landing, but he vowed to change that - when they won the battle tomorrow, and had patched up the wounded and disposed of the dead he would seek her out and hold her tight and ask her to tell him about anything and everything that had happened to her. 

For now, he knew he could trust Brienne’s judgement. 

“Ok, Theon too. That’s a depressingly low number of people.” 

Brienne hummed in agreement, Podrick sighing in defeat. 

“Well it’s better than nothing. Besides, she’s rarely without at least one of us anyway, so it should be easy to do.” Brienne stopped, smiling slightly. “Lady Sansa will hate us babysitting her.”

“If it keeps her alive, I can deal with her being annoyed with us,” Jaime muttered, eyes slowly trailing off to the window. “In the meantime, we listen and observe. We need to find a way to prove it was Daenerys who bought the assassin, and people talk.”

Brienne and Podrick both nodded and the room went silent, all three lost in their thoughts as they considered how to keep Sansa safe in a castle full of enemies. 

  
  


xxx

  
  


Jaime was anything but thrilled to be heading to the war counsel, no matter how important it may be on the cusp of said-war. He didn’t know if he could stand there and look at Daenerys without impaling her on his sword, let alone listen to her take charge and order them about as if the petulant child had any idea how to win a war or command an army. Brienne had tried and failed to reason with him that they couldn’t even be sure the assassin was the work of Daenerys, but he was sure it was. It was the sort of spiteful game that he was sure she found as amusing as Joffrey and Cersei did. 

Yeah, he was going to need Brienne to stand on his foot the entire meeting to stop him from flinging himself over the table to tackle the white-haired bitch. 

As if Brienne could hear his thoughts, she shot him one last warning glare before opening the doors to the War Chamber, and he followed Podrick in, crossing halfway across the room when the sight before him made him freeze mid-step. 

Not only was Daenerys there, superiority complex engulfing the room like always, but so was Sansa. She sat directly opposite Daenerys, Bran and Arya at one elbow and Theon close to the other, the latter two evidently acting as guards and not trying to be subtle about it. Even Jon, who usually stood at Daenerys' side, had placed himself at the centre of the side of the table, directly between the two women. In fact, the table was practically divided down the middle - the North and its supporters on one side, and Daenerys’ mismatched posse on the other. There was palpable tension in the air, though Daenerys seemed oblivious to it as she spoke quietly to Missandei.

Sansa spared him a smile, one that was most likely meant to quell his worries and stop him from fussing over her, and he just about managed to return it with a tight-lipped one of his own. His worries were absolutely not alleviated, though, and he quickly took his place beside Theon, sharing a quick nod with the man after the Kraken-boy had caught him staring at Sansa - they quickly made it clear they were both on the same side.

The war counsel was long and tensions were high as everyone fought over the battleplans, and even though Jaime made sure to have his opinion as an experienced General heard, he was well aware that his focus kept slipping to Sansa. Every time she spoke, or reacted to something stupid that was said, or even when she shifted in her seat, his eyes snapped to watch her. 

He had it bad. 

  
  


**Sansa **

  
  
  


By the end of this war counsel, Sansa was going to have no teeth left after her consistent grinding. She had to bite her tongue as she listened to some of the ideas being tossed around by Daenerys and Grey Worm and the Dothraki. As if they knew how to win a war like this. 

Granted, she wasn’t exactly an expert tactician, but she had common sense and a cunning mind and she’d seen so many people make mistakes that she knew which footfalls to avoid. Everytime the white-haired women spoke over Lord Royce or Jaime or Ser Daven, people who had experience in winning wars, Sansa’s fingers twitched with the temptation to slap the haughty look off her face. 

It didn’t help that she kept drifting off into other thoughts, pondering whether Daenerys was truly the one behind the assassination attempt. Honestly, Sansa still wasn’t convinced. The woman was absolutely capable of such under-handed tactics such as breaking the guest right custom of the North, but it still didn’t seem that straightforward. 

_ Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. _

She hated the man, but Petyr was right. Nothing is ever as it seems, and she’d be a fool to believe in something just because it made sense. No, she needed proof. Half-listening as Jon tried to reason with Grey Worm on the necessity of having a vast cache of archers, she looked over Daenerys’ advisors. Every one of them would know if it had been her idea to have Sansa killed, as Daenerys wasn’t one for secrecy nor subtlety. 

Except Tyrion. She wouldn’t tell him, not the man who tried to tamper her wilder side. Not the brother of the ex-husband of the woman she was plotting against. Tyrion was smart, and it was likely he had his suspicions - even if Daenerys was denying it, he was likely questioning whether it was her. Maybe she could work with that. Find what remained of the good man he’d been when they had technically been family, before he chose to fight on the side of a maniac. 

Her eyes glossed over the next few people. Missandei, Jorah, Grey Worm and the leader of the Dothraki she still didn’t know the name of. People who would certainly know, and certainly not be tricked into revealing it. Which left one person. Varys. 

As alert as ever, The Spider felt eyes on him instantly, quickly looking up to lock gazes with Sansa as the argument grew louder around them. He nodded, expression polite enough but eyes as carefully blank as usual. It was the same look she had perfected, and she utilised it now, holding his gaze until finally he broke contact to fiddle with a book of expenses in front of him. 

Triumphant, and with the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind, Sansa turned back to the conversation as they finally settled the current debate and went to move on to the next ones. 

“What of those who are not fighting?” She interjected, looking first to Jon, then to every other person gathered in the room. “The Great Hall would be better utilised as a makeshift hospital, so either we find somewhere else in the castle, or we move them to Torrhen’s Square immediately.”

“No, we can’t send people away, we don’t have enough men to offer them sufficient protection,” Jon argued, the tiredness in his voice betraying the worry he felt. His knuckles were fisted on the table, bent over as he studied the map in the same way he’d been doing for hours, and Sansa was once again struck by the impressive figure he presented. 

If only he hadn’t backed the wrong Queen, he would be the King he looked to be. 

“Then what do you suggest?” Brienne questioned, always one to show concern for the helpless. 

“The Crypts,” Tyrion announced, in a way that clearly meant he’d already decided and hadn’t elected to tell anyone else but Daenerys. “We can barricade the doors, and the people will be safe from wight walkers and dragon fire in the depths of the tombs.”

Perplexed, Sansa blinked and shook her head, glancing around the group - who seemed to range from easy agreeance to justified skepticism - to see if anyone else saw the glaring problem with that plan that she did. 

“You’re not serious? Do you really think the crypts are a good place to hide in this war?”

Tyrion looked puzzled by her opposition, and she skipped past the irritated face of Daenerys to speak directly to Jon. 

“The Night King raises the dead for his army, and you want the children and the elderly to hide in the one place where bodies are stored? Please, tell me someone else here sees the issue with that logic.”

Realisation and worry dawned on several faces, but Daenerys was quick with her expression of dismissal, and her advisors seemed unfazed. Jon, as always these days, looked to be in two minds, stroking his beard in thought as he glanced between the women at either head of the table. 

“They’re too long gone, just dust and bone fragments now. There are no full corpses for him to raise, the people will be fine,” Tyrion spoke up after an unsubtle look from his Queen, and Jon slowly nodded. 

Her brother sighed, turning to her with an understanding face, and an even, resolute tone. “We don’t have much of a choice, it’s one of the few places that can be properly barricaded.”

Begrudging acceptance had most of the table nodding and murmuring in agreement, and although Sansa remained unconvinced, she was clearly out-voted on this issue - as usual. 

“Let’s take a break, we can reconvene later after supper to go over the final details,” Jon decided, and the room began to clear quickly as people bowed their heads and went on their way. By Sansa’s side, Theon was quick to grasp her elbow and help her from the chair, linking their arms when she stood on slightly shaking feet and letting her lean on him. She shot him a grateful smile, when out of the corner of her eye she noticed Daenerys approach Jon, only for him to mutter something under his breath and quickly stride off in the opposite direction. The mixture of anger and shock on Daenerys’ face almost had Sansa laughing, and the woman quickly looked up to glare at her as if she had sensed it. 

Keeping with her mind games, Sansa merely smiled, fake but convincingly puzzling, and turned to slowly walk from the room, wondering what that little encounter could have been about. 

  
  
  


**Jaime**

  
  


He had been seeking a different sibling when he had ventured into the Godswood, but he didn’t turn around when he spotted the black curls instead of flowing red. 

He hesitated only for a second before he approached the man, having the foresight to crunch the snow under his boots with vigour - Jon was too jumpy a character to sneak up on. Sure enough, tension pulled Jon’s shoulders back when he was still 20 feet away. The eyes that turned to meet him changed from tired to surprised in an instant, and Jaime was sure that Jon had been dreading someone in particular seeking him out. Possibly Daenerys, given the blatant dismissal of her only an hour previous. 

“Praying to the Gods for good luck and fortune tomorrow? Didn’t have you down as the praying sort, to be honest,” Jaime drawled, stopping several paces away and shoving his hands in his pockets to stave off the chill - when the metal one got cold, it made his wrist hurt like a bitch. 

Jon snorted, an action full of blatant self-deprecation. “Praying never done me or my family any good, why start now?”

“Ah,” Jaime nodded, lips pulling into a smirk. “So you are out here to avoid Daenerys then?”

Jon shot him a hot glare, and Jaime raised a hand placatingly in a direct opposition to his mocking tone. “Sorry, you’re out here to avoid _ Your Grace _then?”

With the look of a man reaching the end of his tether, Jon exhaled sharply and balled his fists. Then the tension drained out of him in one fell swoop, and he turned with a sigh to raise closed eyes to the sky, light snow settling on his cheeks in a sham of serenity. 

“Do you think she was the one who ordered the assassination of Sansa, or do you just want to blame her because you’re angry and she’s a viable target?”

The blunt question took Jaime off guard, the idea that Jon was questioning his loyalty to Daenerys even a little bit suddenly shifting the entire game. Given the gravity of the situation, and the possible effects it could have on Sansa’s life, he thought carefully about his next words.

“It makes sense. I mean, you must have seen the way she looks at Sansa? Even the way she looks at Arya, and me, and Ser Royce. She wants us all dead, Snow, and she will not hesitate to slaughter us all the second she is Queen because no one will be able to stop her. Not Tyrion, and certainly not you.”

The words seemed to hit home, and Jon’s face morphed into that broody, angry face he recognised from the first time they’d ever met. With sharp breaths, he began to pace back and forth in agitation. 

“She’s not a villain! She wants to make Westeros a better place, she wants people to be free-”

“By taking away their freedom? How does that work? She has no honour, no self-control, no finesse. The only thing that woman has is a saviour complex and pyromaniac tendencies,” Jaime chided, rolling his eyes as he tried to convince him to see reason. “Look, I know what it’s like to love someone bad, and I also know how much you will look back and hate the version of yourself that stood by that person when you finally love someone good. Don’t become me, see what’s happening around you and do something about it before it’s too late."

Jon paused in his pacing, facing away from Jaime with slumped shoulders. “I know she can be difficult, and we don’t agree with everything, but-”

“But, nothing!” Jaime cut him off, speaking to him as if he were a child and not a King in all but name. “She is not your family, the people she’s hurting are, and that should be enough for you to cut her off.”

Jon whirled around to face him aggressively. “I know! I see it! I know that she’s petulant and selfish and too quick to kill, but what am I to do? If I turn on her now she’ll kill us all! She’ll take her dragons and her armies and leave us to the mercy of the Army of the Dead, and we don’t stand a chance without her - you’re a war commander, you know I’m right!” He stopped suddenly, deflating and voice dropping as he rubbed a hand over his face. When he spoke again, it was a quiet confessional for Jaime and the woods alone. “I can't be wrong about her, not after everything I gave up to back her. I have to see this through.”

Nodding slowly, Jaime clapped him on the shoulder. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Because if it comes down to it, you need to know I will do whatever it takes to keep Sansa safe - and I will kill anyone who stands in my way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to rewrite this three times and I got nowhere with it so hopefully this is halfway decent at least. This is the sort of 'quiet before the storm' chapter, so if it's a bit slow, I'm sorry but it was necessary for setup. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed x


End file.
